


Stuck in Reverse

by Macx



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Sentinels & Guides, Alternate Universe - Sentinels and Guides Are Known, Bonding, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Psychic Bond, Sentinel/Guide Bonding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-11
Updated: 2016-02-19
Packaged: 2018-05-13 06:15:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 28
Words: 80,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5698057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Macx/pseuds/Macx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They were polar opposites from different worlds. They worked smoothly together on missions, but there was something else between them. It was always there, pushing and pulling, tearing into them.</p><p>Napoleon has no idea what to make of this Sentinel who works without a Guide, has never needed one, who functions like clockwork. A man who could blow up in your face, kill you in a dozen creative ways before breakfast, and who never zones. A man he keeps poking and prodding, provoking at every turn.</p><p>He should be grateful that Illya needs no one to help him with control, because Napoleon is no Guide. He tested negative. He has a talent, but he is no Guide. Really. He isn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my variation of the myriad of Sentinel-Guide AU fics out there, though sadly none in the UNCLE movie verse, as far as I know. I’m not following any kind of set AU, so bear with me. I’m drawing my own here. I play with some concepts, disregard others and set up my own. I still hope you have fun reading this.
> 
>  
> 
> I have no idea how this could have happened. I only bought the DVD for entertainment and because a good friend mentioned that I would like the movie.
> 
> The fic is the result of that and my rambling brain cell (yes, one. Explains my state of mind sometimes…).

Illya Kuryakin tested genetically positive as a dormant Sentinel at the age of ten. It was early, the tests still questionable, and while his parents didn’t make a big fuss out of it, officials did.

When his father was sent off to the GULAG in Siberia and his family lost all privileges, everyone expected him to come online from the psychological stress.

He didn’t.

It happened when he turned sixteen, for no apparent reason, and he registered right up there, as an A-class, with all five senses and a strength that would become unrivalled if he found the right Guide.

With the Special Forces he learned control. Tight, iron-wrought control. He learned to be self-sufficient. He learned restraint, though the volatile explosions happened when the right trigger was pushed.

By the time Illya turned twenty-one he had gone through dozens of prospective candidates for a Guide, burning through them like a wildfire. None of them were able to withstand the psychic force involved in a bond to a Sentinel of Kuryakin’s manifestation, breaking it off just as the surface connections formed, their minds overwhelmed by the fire inside the young man.

One he had torn to shreds. A whimpering, babbling wreck of a man, older than the Sentinel, A-class Guide and still not up to the challenge. Illya had utterly destroyed him.

The KGB didn’t mind.

Not really.

He was an effective, deadly operative and with the right handler he performed just perfectly.

Efficiently.

And the rage that boiled underneath the deceptively stoic façade was used for their purposes.

Illya learned to concentrate, to rein in his temper as long as was needed, then let it fly and tear into whatever he needed. His handlers called it ‘decompressing’. For him it was a period of no memory, of such powerful emotions that they wiped out his rational mind. The primal being came free and soared happily, then it was caged again.

Illya never questioned it, rarely needed a Guide for missions, and he decompressed in his own way. It wasn’t always the healthiest way, sure, but it did get the job done and his handlers didn’t comment on the path of destruction, serious injuries and sometimes death he carved in his wake.

His shields were flawless.

Everything was.

He fulfilled his missions, he had an incredible success rate, and he performed.

It was all he ever did.

It was like the creature that resided inside him, the monster that killed and bloodied its claws, was in upheaval, wanting more, wanting to go out and right into the next melee.

 

 

Of course he met other Sentinels, all of them with Guides, and he saw their expressions, the pity and disgust, the fear and loathing. He was an unknown for them, an aberration. He didn’t fit. He should be catatonic, a gibbering wreck of a man, overwhelmed by his senses.

He wasn’t.

He was lethal. He functioned.

 

 

One asked him about his spirit guide.

Illya was perplexed for a moment, unsure what she was talking about.

 

 

It was the night he spent reading up on what he was supposed to be for the very first time.

 

 

He never caught sight of his so-called spirit animal. He suspected he either didn’t have one or it was too terrible to manifest.

He didn’t pursue that line of thinking for much longer.

And if he saw a shadow sometimes, at the far edge of his sleeping mind, it was nothing but a faint memory in the morning.

 

* * *

 

Napoleon Solo was tested positive as a low-level empath and as such as a possible Guide when he was in the Army.

He was eighteen.

He didn’t register all that highly after the initial positive. Two more tests showed no single blip went higher than maybe a D-class empath, which had him off the list of Guides to be trained immediately.

No one realized his true abilities and he breezed through his escapades of theft and deceit easily.

C or D-level Guide potential, the Army had noted down.

Too low to be useful. No Sentinel would be able to work with him, not even as a simple anchor-line.

No one suspected that his charm and suaveness, his smooth execution of any kind of theft, could be because of his empathy.

Napoleon never hit it off with any Sentinel he came across in his career, but he managed to wrap whoever was his target around his little finger, distract them, schmooze them.

He was a professional.

He got what he wanted.

When he was caught he ran into his first wall, a B-level Sentinel with a B-level Guide, both of which were far, far outside his abilities.

As a CIA agent he had a success rate that was up there with the best CIA-trained agents. He did his job, he did it well, and he squirreled away what he could to build a little nest egg. His superiors and handlers were aware of his illegal activities, but they could never pin anything on him.

There was no proof.

No Sentinel he crossed paths with thought of him as a Guide. No Sentinel-Guide pair gave him more than a cursory look.

And whenever he was retested, he still registered way too low to pull off any kind of Guide methods. No one thought that he was empathically talented enough to influence a person, least of all the psychologists he played, the handlers he had wrapped around his little finger.

Solo was successfully flying under their radar and that was what he wanted.

His shields were impeccable, keeping him from being discovered, and while they stopped Napoleon from discovering his true depth, he didn’t care.

He wasn’t Guide material anyway.

He didn’t need to know more about himself.

 

 

So when he was paired with the volatile Russian super soldier who had torn out the back of his getaway car, had later nearly choked him in a Berlin toilet house, he didn’t get a blip.

Close physical proximity, life-and-death brawl, and there was nothing.

The way Kuryakin was looking at him, that dark fire in his eyes, the stoic expression that barely hid his anger at being teamed up with an American he detested, he didn’t seem to find Napoleon any more desirable than Solo desired the Red Peril.

 

 

Which was a lie, he told himself later. A big, fat lie.

 

*

 

Of course he had looked into the man’s file, had read up on the intel. Of course he knew his history, and that he was an A-level Sentinel, an alpha candidate who had until now burned every Guide, sent them screaming and sobbing back to wherever they had come from.

Napoleon was fascinated.

It was why he had provoked him in the first place, to see that rage, to witness the outbreak. A brief storm raging over the land and then there was nothing but destruction left behind.

Powerful, yes.

Absolutely under control until a trigger was hit.

His family. His father. His mother.

A Sentinel of his abilities and he had psychotic episodes that didn’t break him, that didn’t throw him into a fugue or a zone.

Yes, Napoleon was fascinated.

And he continued to poke at that dangerous, mercurial temper.

 

 

Every. Chance. He. Got.

From beginning to end.

 

 

It was entertaining.

The Red Peril was entertaining.

More than anything he had ever had the pleasure to experience. Challenging, too.

 

 

He also looked very good in all black. Rome was just about to be Napoleon’s downfall.

 

 

They worked smoothly together.

With some ups and downs, sure, but they did get the job done, though there were some hiccups.

 

 

The biggest was Solo getting strapped to an electric chair and having his brain fried.

His shields wavered.

He was losing control and he wasn’t even aware of it.

There were cracks forming, tearing at his decade-old walls, turning him into a mass of pain and suffering. He caught whiffs from Rudi, the crazy Nazi uncle of Gaby’s, but he was in too much agony to really tell them apart from everything else his brain threw at him.

He was starting to hallucinate. He saw something shadowy race around the underground room, saw it snap and snarl, but it had no shape.

 

 

It was Kuryakin who saved him, of all people, when Napoleon had been convinced he would die that day.

“You doing okay, Cowboy?”

The question was casual, the words spoken at leisure, but the meaning was so much deeper.

Something sparked in those usually glacial eyes, a fire that was blazing hotly, contained by a super-human will and determination. It was something so furious it was almost unnatural. It was a darkness in a soul that needed to be vented, that wanted out, but it had never found a right way.

Only destruction.

Venting equaled destruction, maybe death.

It was a beast, a monster, dark and deadly, and it was locked away behind a human façade, clutching onto a human soul with all it had. Lose that and it would never be controlled.

Solo had seen it rise once or twice before, that tell-tale twitch of a finger tapping against one leg, but it had never been this open, this uncontained, and it was not even directed at him. Like some 6’5” supernatural creature right out of Hell it swooped down on Rudi, threatening to devour him alive.

Napoleon had to suppress a shiver and the instinctual need to recoil, while part of him wanted to reach out and soothe that unbound fury, push it down to a bearable level.

This was unhealthy.

For him.

For Illya.

It would only end in pain.

Eyes the color of a glacier lake caught his still too blurry gaze, anchored him in the present, brought him back and pushed away the memory of pain and fear for just a second.

Napoleon looked into those eyes and while he saw the untamed energy boiling below the human façade, he also saw and felt something else.

For the first time in a week of working together, there was nothing between them. Just the naked truth, the emotions roiling through Illya, and Napoleon felt something inside of him yearn to be free, to touch this, to embrace it and call it his own.

Illya expelled a soft breath and the moment was broken when he blinked.

Sure hands freed him from the infernal contraption, helped him stand and stagger over to the wall to lean against. His muscles twitching, his brain scrambled, Solo could only watch events unfold. He was scraping together his shields, was desperately trying to catch a clear thought and put his mask back on.

Illya had seen him at his almost worst and vulnerable, had probably seen the relief in his eyes, the hope and plea for help. Napoleon had been close to embarrassed to find himself clinging to the taller man as he was removed from the chair.

The darkness the Sentinel projected had been unbearable, but it hadn’t been harmful.

Not to him.

It was a void, a vortex, swallowing whatever came too close.

And it had greeted him almost like an old friend, a welcome sight, anchoring itself in him, like Napoleon had used the wall of muscle and human warmth as an anchor for his frazzled mind.

The fury brushing over his mind had been like a hot knife, but instead of slicing into the American agent, it had been focused on Rudi alone.

Ready to kill.

Tear apart.

But still, Kuryakin calmed down, listened to him, followed his lead. He talked, he had himself under control, and while it should have been a clue, Solo didn’t delve too deeply into that.

The satisfied expression on Peril’s face when Rudi died in his own contraption had him shiver again, his wavering shields mere scraps of what had been before, and suddenly the Russian’s head snapped around, his eyes narrowing, nostrils flaring.

Two pairs of blue eyes met, one glacially cold with a hot fire underneath that cold surface, the other still too open and too vulnerable.

Solo broke the staring contest. He gathered what was left of his dignity, pride and shields, pushed past the other man and headed for the surface.

They had a nuclear bomb to find.

He had no time to delve deeper into the strange sensations.

The world’s fate was in their hands.

 

*

 

Something inside of him curled with warmth and longing, wanted to feel the Sentinel again, wanted to touch that strength.

Napoleon Solo was no stranger to attraction, though he usually used his charms on an unsuspecting target or his bedmate for a night. He had never felt anything for them, aside from the need for a momentary release.

Illya felt different.

Illya was different.

And he was completely off limits.

That hurt more than his failure to enthrall Victoria Vinciguerra.

 

*

 

It was the first time Napoleon entertained different thoughts when it came to his Russian partner. Solo wasn’t known to push any kind of warm body out of his bed, though he rarely invited men as easily as women. As targets he made no difference between them, but he preferred not to leave scandals behind when it came to hotel room pleasures.

Illya… the Peril was not a simple pleasure. He was complicated and there was so much more underneath that sometimes mulish surface, that cold distance and close to open disgust.

Napoleon found himself drawn to him, wanted to know more, wanted to see and feel what had touched him in the torture room.

And every time he had that thought cross his mind he shied away and pushed it into a deep, dark corner.

This was an attraction close to fatal, because it was an attraction to a powerful Sentinel. Napoleon was nothing, no Guide, nothing at all.

No, he told himself as he jerked off in the shower to the image of a tall, blond, broad-shouldered man with piercing blue eyes. No, no, no!

He came explosively, a gasp of air spraying through the water, and if Illya’s name was somewhere lost in it, so be it.

 

*

 

Solo was tired, feeling the sleepless nights, the nightmares lapping at the edge of his perception, as he packed his bag. Every time he had caught some shut-eye there had been this shapeless shadow, this thing following him like a nosy puppy.

It was no puppy, though.

It was… dangerous. Teeth and claws.

Solo felt aches from his abused muscles, from the electric currents racing through him, and movements were less smooth than before.

He wanted to sleep for a week.

He wanted to crawl into an anonymous apartment, hole up, drop his shields and just fill the emptiness with hard liquor.

He hadn’t felt like this for a long, long time, but the strain had been getting to him ever since demolishing a Berlin rest room with a towering Russian KGB agent.

A Sentinel. An A-level without a Guide. A powerful steel ball of energy that could explode at the slightest provocation.

He was sure the man had picked up something in Rudi’s chamber of torture, but Peril hadn’t so much as given him a sniff or another look since then. They had chased down Vinciguerra, had saved Gaby and retrieved the bomb.

Sure, Napoleon had been beaten up for his troubles, had nearly been killed. And he had been saved by a flying motorbike wreck.

Kuryakin was a freakishly strong man, he mused distantly. Among other things, which all ran along the lines of aggravating, rude and ruthless.

But he had saved Napoleon’s life with throwing that heap of junk at Vinciguerra and then stabbing him with a knife. It had been surreal and part of Solo had been thrilled to watch the carnage, the anger that he had seen before, while another had wanted to calm the blond down, anchor those raging emotions, keep the darkness in check.

He had reached out. Now, thinking about it, Napoleon was sure he had.

Unconsciously.

Stupidly.

Damnit!

That had lasted for all but a second before he had locked it away, telling Illya he was fine and just needed a minute, pushing him to take care of Gaby.

And who was Napoleon Solo anyway? A low-level empath. Too unimportant for even the lowest Sentinels to be interested in, though he had talent and he worked that talent to his favor.

He just never registered.

Illya was the super spy, the special one, the rage-driven Sentinel without an outside control mechanism. He had command of his own senses and needed no one else. Throughout their joint mission Napoleon had wondered how the man managed to keep his shields up, not to zone. He had watched him covertly, had catalogued their interactions, and he had seen the near-loss of control on several occasions.

There were always signs of an imminent outbreak.

Clear signs of Peril fighting it down until he could let go.

It was amazing to watch. Napoleon was drawn to it like a moth to a flame, a deadly spectacle that would kill him, too. And still he did not run from it.

A normal human might be called a psychopath, but this was an A-class Sentinel with no counterbalance. This was a man who was in complete control of himself unless the anger reached a certain point.

Then he snapped, the lid was blown off the volcano underneath, and it was a brief, violent explosion, soon to be tamed and locked away again.

Who could live like that?

Napoleon had even suspected Gaby as a Guide, but while she had been able to hold back their Russian comrade, she had never really calmed him down.

Still, Illya had come to him first, asked him, Napoleon, if he was alright. Sure, it could be argued that Napoleon was nothing but a possible ally and a clever pair of hands to use a gun if necessary.

But…

Solo couldn’t shake that niggling feeling those intense eyes evoked. A face splattered in mud, the blue eyes like icy fire, burning too intensely to be merely human, and a strength unbroken even by his fall.

He had let himself get pulled to his feet, watching Illya with Gaby.

And how the man had calmed down after his outbreak and the murder of Vinciguerra.

He wasn’t jealous of Illya’s attraction to their fellow agent. She was a strong, feisty and attractive woman. If Peril liked her, good for him, even if she wasn’t a Guide.

No, Napoleon wasn’t jealous. Or disappointed.

He simply felt empty.

For the first time in his life he had encountered something he couldn’t have, couldn’t steal, was unable to ignore and leave.

 

 

Jerking off didn’t help.

 

 

Bedding two beautiful and willing women didn’t either.

 

*

 

Facing off against the powerful Sentinel, aware that they both had the same orders, Napoleon felt a weariness settle in his bones.

He liked the guy.

He truly did.

The whole surly, stand-offish package.

Sure, they rubbed each other the wrong way, but they had been able to cope with their differences, work together, and they had done the impossible.

Surviving.

And he had seen the struggle, the fight going on inside the Sentinel. True human emotions, the battle against orders Napoleon had had himself.

It had hurt him, too. It had touched something deeply, brushing over his shields, his mind.

So Napoleon tossed Peril the watch he had retrieved and watched with satisfaction as the Russian’s face transformed into stunned amazement.

Like a switch had been flicked and the predator was caged again.

Napoleon almost felt the other’s joy, his emotions as the only possession he truly had was returned to him. It was warm and strong, not at all like everything else the KGB agent usually projected.

And Solo wanted to feel it again.

He reined himself in with an effort. This could only end in more pain if he let himself feel.

Had the other man wanted to shoot him anyway he might even just have let him. Part of him had tried to reach out for just a second, touch that steel ball of a mind, feel the fire lick along a haphazard, barely there connection between a lethal, military trained Sentinel and a shadow of a Guide, a thief and CIA agent.

He was tempted. For that one second he was tempted. He wanted to reach out and touch the other man; not just physically.

But no…

Napoleon got his instincts reined in and just smiled.

 

 

“Absolutely hated working with you, Peril.”

“You’re a terrible spy, Cowboy.”

 

 

Two hours later they were christened the new operatives for U.N.C.L.E., with a new boss, and on their way to Istanbul.

 

tbc...


	2. Chapter 2

Illya Kuryakin was no fool. He was a KGB-trained spy. He was an agent. He was a Sentinel. His senses were all there, strong and under his perfect control. Sight, sound, smell, taste and touch. It was all at his disposal, but like a weapon he only used them when necessary, though he trained.

When he had been with the Special Forces, his superiors had been stumped by his lacking need for a Guide. He had been examined and examined again, had been sent through several evals, and then he had been called defective.

The KGB had been interested in him for that very reason. He didn’t need to be paired with anyone to function. Sentinels were very sought after spies, even though they could be overwhelmed when their senses spiked.

Illya had become the secret weapon.

He had been ruthlessly trained to the point where he only saw Guides as a necessary evil when a new handler thought he needed one to relax.

Illya didn’t need to relax.

Ever.

Being a Sentinel full time didn’t tire him out. He didn’t need a Sentinel-friendly room to meditate.

And Guides were a nuisance.

He left those poor souls wrecked and hurting.

So as a trained spy, he noticed things.

With his senses and without.

Like Napoleon Solo and his penchant to charm his way into everyone’s life, their beds, their bank vaults. He watched the man work and he was fascinated by how smoothly the other man operated, though he was a terrible spy.

A really terrible spy.

But a very good thief. His lock-picking skills were unrivalled. There was no safe he couldn’t get into, or so Solo claimed, and he could be a shadow in the night. Taking things off people was easy for him. A game, really. A continuous test for his skills.

He had a woman in his bed every night. He breezed through missions with ease and a quip on his lips. He could fight, he could shoot, he had insane plans, and he was honorable.

That was what had thrown Illya the most.

But he was truly terrible as a spy.

A month into their lives as U.N.C.L.E. operatives and on their second mission together, Kuryakin wondered how a man with such bad luck was the CIA’s most effective and successful operative.

Watching him patch up the bullet graze to his arm, Illya gave an exasperated sigh and plucked the piece of blood-tinged gauze out of the other man’s trembling hands.

Solo looked ashen, almost like he had lost more blood than this mere graze would suggest, and his eyes held a slightly feverish glint.

“Cowboy?”

It got him a startled look, then those blue eyes narrowed and the gauze was yanked out of his fingers.

“I’m fine! It’s just a graze!”

Yes, he could see that.

And still, there was more.

They had run their mission, had retrieved the stolen data, and they had handed over the traitor to Waverly. Aside for bumps, bruises, and the graze, there had been no further complications.

Except there had been the few hours Illya had lost contact with his partner.

Solo had been inside the hotel for too long, trying to find anything on their target as he had searched her room. When there was nothing, not even a blip, Illya had extended his hearing, then his sight, but there had been no one there.

Napoleon had been gone.

It had been just his luck that Solo still had a tracker in his shoes, whether accidentally or because he had left them there. When he had finally located him, the man had been crawling out of a car wreck, his arm bloodied, and he had looked a little shell-shocked.

The woman on the passenger side had been dead. A broken neck, probably from the impact.

Illya had no idea how she had overpowered his partner. From her file Madeleine Jaime had been a B-level Guide and it had been rumored that she could do more than just influence susceptible minds. She could plant suggestions.

Agents were trained to withstand psychological attacks and Sentinels like Illya were easily capable of withstanding such mental intrusions. Napoleon… he was trained, but something had happened. Something that had shaken him quite severely. Even if Madeleine had tried her suggestions on him, he wouldn’t have fallen for her, of that Illya was convinced.

The man was stronger than that.

He had come aware of that strength in Rome. He had felt something when he had freed his partner from Rudi Teller’s torture chair. For a moment the Sentinel had picked something up, but it had been so brief, like a mirage, he had dismissed it.

Until today.

“Give me that!” Kuryakin snapped and retrieved the antiseptic, proceeding to clean the sluggishly bleeding shot wound.

Napoleon hissed and flinched away.

“Ow! Careful!”

“Don’t be a baby.”

“I was shot!”

“I can see that.”

Illya dabbed at the wound again.

Something rippled.

Between them.

Like reestablishing shields, like low level currents of electricity.

Illya stopped, frowning, eyes narrowing.

“What,” he snarled, not even making it a question. “This…”

Like in Rome. That single moment when Solo had been at his most vulnerable.

The American glared, the anger in his blue eyes hot enough to rival Illya’s, but a far cry from that black hole that was his soul. The darkness that continuously burned inside him and devoured everything, what made him a nightmarish thing, a killing machine honed and used by his country, instead of a powerful Sentinel.

He knew this.

He had felt it too many times to discard it as anything but a surface bond about to form between him and a prospective Guide. He had destroyed Guides by just letting them closer than he knew was healthy for them.

He pushed.

The shields pushed back, like an angry wolf, snarling. No, not a wolf. Something small, wily, still extremely dangerous and with many teeth. A wolverine, maybe.

Illya almost laughed at that comparison. Solo would be horrified.

But he knew what this was.

A warning.

A serious, dangerous warning.

Those shields were strong, he found. Too strong to be those of a low-level empath. And old. They had been there for so long… probably since before he had come online.

It was enticing. It was warmth, the promise of more than just a means to an end. This was… everything. This was what other Sentinels spoke of when meeting the one person who was their perfect match. This was…

Illya tore himself away from the fledgling connection. He blinked.

Solo’s eyes were suddenly like chips of ice, his face closed off, and the ripples disappeared like they had never been there, a figment of Illya’s imagination.

They hadn’t been, though.

That explained how Madeleine had overpowered a trained CIA agent. Solo wasn’t just a receptive. He was…

 

 

“You are a Guide!”

It came out like a curse, like it was the worst Napoleon Solo could be in Peril’s eyes.

And those eyes were blazing again, the darkness residing in the other man’s soul flaring to eradicate everything in their path. The anger was there, the need to bury his fist in something or someone.

One finger drummed twice against his thigh.

Napoleon wanted to reach out and touch that finger, calm the other man, ease the rage, but he bit down on that.

“Nope,” he said flippantly instead. “Got your wires crossed there, Peril.”

“You have shields, but you’re a Guide!” Kuryakin insisted, face shifting through several emotions, none of them pretty.

“Are you hearing impaired? I am not a Guide. And you make it sound like the most despicable thing in the world,” Solo quipped, bringing up his trademark smile that was just a hair’s breadth away from a smirk.

Kuryakin snarled like an angry animal, hands balled into fists. He looked truly terrifying, but somehow Napoleon wasn't afraid. He advanced on the American agent, but Solo refused to yield. He knew which buttons to push without getting maimed.

It was so easy.

Illya made it easy.

“You lie,” he hissed.

“Shouldn’t I know what I am? And even if I was, which I'm definitely not, something bother you about that, Mr. Unbonded Alpha Sentinel with Rage Issues?”

“You never told! It’s not in your file!”

“Doesn’t belong in my file. I’m not a Guide, Peril. Never have been, never will be. I was tested. I’m close to non-existent on their scale.”

Napoleon wasn’t prepared for the vicious shove he got and that had his back bump against the wall. Illya had never gotten physical with him in his anger about whatever it was Solo had done to infuriate him. He had twitched a little, then stalked off.

Never touched him.

Now… that strength was turned against Napoleon and he had gotten a first taste of it.

Illya's hand was flat against his chest; a chest only covered by an undershirt. He might just be naked in front of the other man for all it felt like.

Heavy.

Curbed strength.

A strength that could crush him. This was the man who had chased him through Berlin, that relentless predator who wouldn't back off until his mission was complete.

Napoleon refused to be afraid.

He refused to let any emotions show.

“When were you going to tell me?” Kuryakin demanded.

“Well, let me think. Never?” He put on his most charming smile. “Yes, 'never' sounds about right. Because it’s none of your fucking business, Peril,” he added sweetly.

“It is!”

“Because you’re a Sentinel? Well, that doesn’t come into the equation because even though I have this predisposition, it’s not even up your alley. You’re A-level, all five senses, right? Alpha level, too. You are unrivalled in your psychic strength. Me, I’m barely a blip on the radar. I don't exist.”

“Because you shield.”

There was a push against those shields, brittle and under strain as they already were, and Solo grit his teeth. He turned away like he was in pain, wincing.

Kuryakin looked almost triumphant. Almost. For a brief second there was the predator coming forward, looking at the wounded prey.

Then a slow, slow smile stole over his lips.

“Don’t,” Napoleon warned, voice a hiss.

The expression in those blue eyes could have frozen a volcano.

Napoleon's hands flexed, held loosely at his side.

“Drop them.”

“I said no! You get yourself someone else, okay? I’m not looking for a babysitter job!”

The fingers on his chest curled like a claw, biting into his shirt, but there was a triumphant light in the Sentinel's eyes. “So you confess to being a Guide? But if you are, you are not low-level. You withstood Madeleine Jaime. You took her out instead becoming her victim.”

Napoleon froze. “What,” he stated, voice dropping to a sharp, dangerous level that rivalled Illya’s.

“Your shields… they are heavy. Truly heavy. Made to last through attacks. You were under attack back there, Cowboy. So now you leak,” the Russian stated matter-of-fact, but there was an undercurrent of victory.

“You make it sound so dirty, Peril. And whatever you think, I’m not. Like I said -- and you don’t listen when I’m speaking, right? – I was tested. I’m not a Guide! Now let me tend my wounds in peace. Go play with someone else.”

Napoleon grabbed the strong wrist of the hand on his chest, momentarily freezing as something chittered over his senses. He cursed himself for his instinctual reaction to the touch, but his shields held.

He wasn’t a Guide, would never be one. He didn’t have the talent. He didn’t have the power. He was nothing worth noticing.

All that broadcast immediately and instinctively toward the Sentinel towering behind him, and Illya’s face scrunched up in confusion. His hand stayed, though, fingers twitching again, this time tapping against Napoleon’s chest.

“You are good, Cowboy,” he heard the appreciative rumble. “Born with powerful shields. Why do you hide?”

“I’m not hiding,” he hissed.

“You are. From yourself. From the world. Everything. Me.”

He tore away with an angry snarl, finally dislodging the hand.

Well, Kuryakin let him. If he had wanted to, Napoleon would still be flat against the wall.

“You? From you?! Why would I hide from you, Peril?” He spread his arms, feeling the barely closed graze crack open again. “I’m nothing! Not. A. Guide! Never a Guide! Not even a good spy, right?” He smiled derisively. “And why the interest all of a sudden? You don’t work with Guides. I’ve never seen you request one. You decompress your own way, have your own shields. You wouldn’t function otherwise. You’re sustained by that unhealthy fire inside you, that well of darkness! You don’t need a Guide!”

Illya’s eyes narrowed, his lips a thin line, and there was a twitch at the edge of his left eye.

“You want me as much as I want you, Peril,” Napoleon pressed forward, unconsciously using his talent to fling his emotions at the towering Russian.

His lies.

All the lies.

Because he wanted the other man, wanted him close, wanted to touch and caress.

“Neither one of us needs to be tied down, shackled. I don’t need to be tethered to a guy who sees me as nothing but a helpful tool! Got those at home. You don’t need a thief with a big mouth having your Six. ‘Cause you don’t trust. Not even me! Not even after such a long time!”

The explosion of words left him breathless, chest heaving, eyes flaring with emotions he had suppressed for too long. Napoleon stumbled back, shaking his head, trying to dislodge the weird, humming sensation of an A-level alpha Sentinel too close.

Illya was pushing forward, consciously or unconsciously, and it left him reeling.

There it was again, at the edge of his perception, the shapeless shadow. This time it was joined by something dark and foreboding, looming over it like a hellish thing, ready to devour it. The gray shadow darted away, the shape briefly coalescing into what had the general appearance of a bushy-tailed fox thing. The darkness loped after it.

Napoleon looked away, trying to get control of himself.

Illya Kuryakin as an Alpha. He was one of the strongest, with all five senses fully functional, and no one but a Guide of that caliber would be able to match his psychic energy. Napoleon… no, he wasn't that. Illya could overwhelm him, would wipe out what was Napoleon Solo, would take over and leave a dead husk. The darkness inside him was too great to be tamed, to be contained, and no empath would withstand that battering ram and come out on the other side alive and kicking.

No one.

And Napoleon wasn’t even a candidate. He had no powers. He had just a little bit more talent than a normal thief and gambler.

He pushed past the unmoving man, shouldered hard against him, and stalked to where his clothes lay. He checked the wound, found the blood flow dried up, and taped a bandage over the injury. Then he pulled on a fresh shirt, trying to ignore the sheer force of Illya’s presence. It was impossible to not notice the Sentinel, who was radiating so strongly, any Guide in his vicinity would cringe away.

Like a super-predator watching its next meal, sizing it up, ready to strike. Swift, clean kill.

Thank goodness for safehouses in remote areas without a soul in sight, or they might have had a Guide screaming nearby.

Napoleon felt the wave, felt the tsunami of psychic energy that loomed up behind him, rise and his shields rose automatically again, even in their battered state. It was an art he had perfected, an automatic reaction.

Survival instinct.

And then Kuryakin was gone.

A void left in his wake, like a sink hole that now collapsed in on itself.

Napoleon released a breath he hadn’t been aware of holding and almost collapsed onto the bed.

For the first time since he had come into his powers, his hands were shaking, his stomach was heaving, and his mind was in turmoil.

 

tbc...


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, I'm amazed and flattered at the response I've received so far to this new fandom I've slid into. It has taken over my life and I keep sprinting toward my tablet or laptop to make notes or write scenes to flesh out later all the time. I really have it bad right now with those two. Thank god for the DVD! I keep replaying scenes and studying those two, noticing so many little things all the time. I just love them!
> 
> Thank you all for reading and leaving comments!

Gaby Teller was no fool and she would have to be blind and completely oblivious not to pick up on the tension between her two fellow agents anyway. She was a spy. She was an agent of U.N.C.L.E. She was neither a Sentinel, nor a Guide, or otherwise empathically gifted, but she had eyes.

So one evening, right after the last mission and before the next, she placed a soda in front of Napoleon and sat down in the armchair opposite him. Arms crossed in front of her chest, she gave him a cool look.

Solo raised one dark eyebrow, a small smile gracing his face. He was handsome, yes. Gaby would also have to be blind not to notice. He was a charming man, suave and capable of knowing exactly what a woman wanted from him, and he played that role to perfection.

Napoleon Solo was the man mothers warned their daughters about and had fathers bring out the shotguns.

He was well-educated, a sophisticated wolf in sheep's clothing. He was an amazing agent and the most successful CIA operative.

But he was also only human.

Gaby hadn’t been fooled from the first moment they had met, though she had appreciated the sight. Nothing wrong with sight-seeing, she told herself.

Now, working with him and Illya in close quarters, being fellow agents and team mates, she had started to look behind the façade. It had broken away piece by piece, usually chiseled away by one blond Russian with a huge temper control issue.

Gaby had found Illya an equally attractive man, though in a different capacity than the American art thief and gambler. Illya was strength, power, a destructive force that obliterated what was in his way and shielded what was his, protecting it as was his nature as a Sentinel. He could be more human than he let on, but it was difficult for him to switch from one mode to another.

Like Napoleon had the same difficulty.

Masks upon masks.

And they were coming down.

After Napoleon had gotten shot and apparently psychically attacked by Madeleine Jaime, things had gotten interesting.

Which was why she was here now.

“Anything you want, Miss Teller?” Napoleon now asked, all smooth charm and soft edges that screamed of danger nevertheless.

“I thought you might want some company. You seem to be without tonight,” she said easily.

“Wasn’t in the mood,” he answered, smiling more and failing at hiding something twitching through his eyes.

Gaby wanted to call him a liar and idiot, but she didn’t. He could probably read it in her expression, though. She crossed her legs.

“Our Russian friend seems to be a bit… off,” she said instead.

“Peril’s his usual self. Grumpy, the strong, silent type, doing his broody thing.” Napoleon shrugged.

“Have you ever wondered why U.N.C.L.E. contracted a five-senses Sentinel without a Guide? Then proceeded to leave him without one?”

Napoleon blinked and his fingers clenched slightly around his glass. “He seems to be working fine without one.”

Gaby inspected her perfectly manicured nails. “Seems so, doesn’t it? The KGB never gave him one. Those few he was introduced to ended up gibbering wrecks, right? But have you given it a thought?”

“No.”

Liar, liar…

Gaby studied the blue eyes, saw the way Napoleon was struggling to maintain the mask while he was truly failing.

“He listens to you, Solo. Always,” she said. “He trusts you.”

It got her a snort, a little laugh. “He’s KGB. They never trust anyone.”

“He might be KGB, was trained by them, but he’s a Sentinel first. And the Sentinel trusts you. He has instincts, right? Good instincts."

“Killer instincts."

“That, too. But this is something else, Solo."

Napoleon’s expression became sharper, dark brows lowering into a scowl. “What are you trying to tell me?”

“That I know your file. You might not have registered on the CIA’s scale, but you have talent. You have something the big guy responds to. You know he does. You calm him, you guide him.”

“I’m not a Guide!” he snapped, briefly losing control.

He got up and put the glass on the mantelpiece, then stalked over to the window and looked out into the dark, rainy night.

“Maybe not,” she acquiesced. “Maybe you’re his anchor. It’s not unheard of for such powerful Sentinels without the need for a Guide to balance themselves on a talented individual, an anchor.”

He shot her a scathing look. Gaby shrugged it off with ease.

“Read up on it,” she told him. “There are more than just Sentinels and Guides in the world. There is more than just a bond between those two. Sometimes the connection is between two different individuals, like a powerful Sentinel in complete control of his senses, and an anchor line. You.”

Solo was silent, but his whole body was tense, radiating defiance.

Gaby didn’t push any further. She got up and approached the man.

“Solo? Think about it. Read up on the whole matter. You have talent. You have shields around you that are different... You are different. It’s why Jaime got to you. You are receptive, you can touch our resident Sentinel and you can anchor him, ease whatever it is that always boils to the surface. You can do it without being aware of it. He responds to you.”

“And to you,” he snapped. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed you two love-birds.”

She smiled serenely. “We haven’t been anything but friends and colleagues since Rome. We never kissed, Solo. Not once.”

He blinked.

“I thought you were a spy, trained to notice such things.”

Napoleon’s glare was fierce.

“Like I said, you are more to him. I notice how he looks at you, how his eyes follow you. It’s really hard to miss. You’re his anchor. To be human. Just think about it.”

And then she left the room.

 

 

Napoleon slept badly that night. That is to say: not at all.

 

* * *

 

Illya was watching him closely after the Jaime mission, his presence more pronounced, sharper, but never to the point where Solo couldn’t function. It was a steady reminder of the other man’s Sentinel watching Napoleon’s non-Guide. It wasn’t harmful, just disturbing to have this single-minded attention that wanted to crawl past those old shields and take a peek at what Solo really was. Five senses trained on him, scanning him, seeking entry.

Napoleon made sure to have his shields as tightly gathered around him as he could.

They went on two successful missions together where nothing out of the ordinary happened. Just the usual running, crawling around in the dark, spying on the target, and evading knife-wielding goons.

Sometimes there were tense moments, especially when Illya used his senses. Napoleon was so much more aware of that now, could tell when he used his sight or sound, when he explored tiny ridges with his fingers to look for clues. When he dialed up one and disregarded the others.

It was distracting how drawn he felt to Peril each time, how he wanted to make sure he didn’t zone.

Kuryakin never zoned.

Solo never touched him.

He wasn’t a Guide and he sure as hell wasn’t anything else.

 

 

They bickered loudly, extensively, much to Gaby’s eye-rolling frustration.

“Like an old married couple,” she muttered, more of a stage whisper.

It had Illya give her a startled deer-in-the-headlight look and Napoleon glared. She smiled sweetly and raised her glass of very good champagne.

“Just saying, boys. You flirt, you run circles around each other, you bicker.”

Illya gaped at her and she wanted to laugh at the expression, but she thought better of it. Napoleon only looked betrayed.

And then they were off on another verbal quarrel about perceptions or lack thereof.

Gaby decided to head for the hotel’s patio and enjoy something cold and sweet. She had earned that.

 

*

 

In Budapest Napoleon picked up an old, battered book on Guide lore, one focusing on the more obscure manifestation of such empathic powers.

 

*

 

They grew closer over the next weeks. Always together on missions that sent them from Bern to Geneva and then to Madrid, a successful team, and while Gaby kept rolling her eyes and dropping none too subtle hints, neither man reacted.

Still, Napoleon felt a weird kind of pull.

He liked Illya. More than was probably healthy. The man was a solemn rock in a wild sea, even if his temper was the storm lying in waiting. He could explode at a moment’s notice, but Solo had started to catch the early signs and he made sure to calm the guy if the brute force wasn’t needed.

The Sentinel seemed to listen to him, to his utter surprise.

Gaby only gave him an 'I told you so'.

 

 

He refused to lose sleepless nights over that.

That and the way he seemed to always be with Illya. How he reacted to him physically, too.

Not a Guide, he tells himself. He had never had the urge to bond with a Sentinel and while he knew about what that meant for a receptive Guide, Napoleon couldn’t say what he felt now was in any way connected to his aberration of a talent.

No, this was appreciation of human beauty and honed perfection in shape of a tall, blond Russian, who just happened to be a Sentinel.

Someone who didn’t need Solo or anyone else to function.

 

 

But Illya didn’t push him away when they huddled under a stone outcropping, in the steady downpour of cold rain in some godforsaken corner of the world, seeking warmth, waiting for the meager light of dawn to make their way to the extraction point.

Napoleon slept rather soundly for an hour, against Illya’s side, and there had been no disgruntled looks or scowls.

His fellow agent had looked almost content for a moment, sharing warmth and giving comfort.

He tried not to think about it too much.

 

 

He also tried not to think about how attractive a thoroughly drenched Illya looked, his clothes molded to his body, mud creating little streaks over his exposed skin.

 

 

That their safehouse was just one room with one bed didn’t bother either man, too. Napoleon should have at least given a token protest, make a few quips, but he was too tired and still too cold, even after a shower. Yes, their little hidey-hole had a shower, though unless he wanted to flood the whole room, Napoleon had to really squeeze into the cubicle.

Not the worst place he had ever been.

They would remain here until things had blown over a little, which meant about twenty-four to forty-eight hours, just to be on the safe side.

Solo poked at Kuryakin until the larger man grumbled something low in Russian, then wriggled to accommodate Napoleon on the rather large and comfortable bed.

 

 

Neither man mentioned how they woke wrapped up in each other.

How they were closer than they actually had to be in the small cottage.

Or how Illya didn’t complain when Napoleon had used him as a pillow.

If there were aborted moves made sometimes, moves that would have gone from close to intimate, it was wisely ignored.

Napoleon kept a close eye on his shields, which had mostly recovered from Madeleine's attack, but sometimes something seemed to spark across their surface.

It didn’t have the general feel of a wound, an injury to his mind.

It was different.

Not Madeleine Jaime.

It was…

Napoleon felt slightly sick all of a sudden.

Illya?

 

* * *

 

The next mission was when things went down the drain and up in fiery flames all at the same moment in time.

Napoleon was already on edge when Waverly had set them on the trail of a rogue military Sentinel. Those three words alone had his skin crawl.

Rogue. Military. Sentinel.

The by-the-way addition that the Sentinel had killed two other Sentinels and their Guides only had Solo want to throw up his breakfast. The man was MI6 trained, his Guide had been killed on their mission, and he blamed the agency, the government, and whoever got in the way.

His handler had been the first victim. Then the two agent pairs sent after him.

Now it was up to U.N.C.L.E., namely Solo and Kuryakin.

The tension was thick enough to cut with a knife, now that they were going after someone as trained and powerful as Illya himself.

Just with a lot less control.

This was a feral Sentinel.

This was bad.

 

 

Really bad.

 

 

Fact was, it went from bad to really bad to abysmally-worse-than-he-could-ever imagine in a heartbeat when the rogue Sentinel by the name of Lucius Bragg got a hold of Solo.

Napoleon had no idea how it could have happened because he had been intensely more careful than on any other mission, and his shields were spot on.

But Bragg got him.

A moment of inattention and he had a Sentinel attacking him.

Solo stood no chance against the fury that overwhelmed him, that cut him down like he was a mere twig, and despite his CIA training he barely got in a blow. The man had a single-mindedness in a fight that rivalled Illya’s. He was strong, he had nothing to lose, and he was military. He knew moves that no one else had been taught.

Napoleon wasn’t a fighter. He also wouldn’t call himself just a gentleman thief. He knew enough to disable an opponent, to extract himself out of dangerous situations in a fight, but the CIA had employed him for his other set of skills, his sophistication and efficiency, not to be the one man Army Peril was. He had only once fought close quarters with his Russian partner and that had shown him just how strong, how skilled the man was.

Illya could kill him in no time flat.

Bragg was a runner-up to that easily.

Something clipped him on the temple and Napoleon went down like a felled tree. Stars danced in front of his eyes and he could barely think. Bragg hauled him up, sneering into his face. His expression was far gone, beyond hope, and the maniacal glint told the whole story.

This was a Sentinel who had completely lost it, for whatever reason. Something inside of him had snapped, had let him go rogue, and now he was feral.

Lucky me, Napoleon thought faintly.

“That all they got to bring me in? A weak copy of a Guide? You think you can just wrap me around your little manipulative finger and leash me?”

Solo smiled carelessly, blood on his lips and teeth. “Why? Are you so special that I need to bring you in alive?” he taunted.

The Sentinel’s presence pushed against his shields and he winced. It had been like a barrage of blows that had him reeling. Still, he put up a smirking front, grinning.

“Nope,” he quipped. “Not at all.”

“You’re no challenge, little Guide.”

“I’m not a Guide, pal.”

It got him a rough laugh. “A bad one, too. Your lies are easy to see through. No wonder you’re not bonded. Who would want to be saddled with such a pathetic excuse for a Guide!”

Napoleon felt irrational anger rise and for a moment the shields wavered, which was all Bragg needed.

There was another blow and he winced, feeling a soft gasp escape his lips.

“I’ll erase you, you little bitch,” Bragg whispered hoarsely. “Like all that came before you to bring me in. You killed my Guide! Do you know what it feels like to have part of yourself ripped out? No? Oh, right, you’re not that kind of Guide. You’re useless!"

Solo screwed his eyes shut and felt a gasp escape him when the other man grabbed him and pushed him back against the wall again. His shields were strong, but this guy was military trained and he was attacking. Not just a little push, these two blows had been like C4-explosions right on front of his door step, so to speak.

He was relentless.

“Useless!" Bragg repeated roughly. “That’s why they sent you. The sacrificial lamb. You know, I don’t care. One more kill."

The blow was blinding, tearing into his mind.

It hurt.

Napoleon’s head exploded in agony, a migraine paling beside what was racing through him, and he instinctively pushed back.

Hard.

To no avail.

This was a siege and Bragg was feral, without guidance, and homing in like a missile.

“You’re gonna fall! Like all the others! Like all the other traitors!” the man hissed hotly.

“Go to hell,” Solo growled.

Another blow, physical and mental, and Napoleon felt his knees buckle when the fist drove into his abdomen. He gasped, then the next blow had him screw his eyes shut, baring his teeth in a snarl.

This wasn’t unlike the chair. This was just another kind of torture, attacking his mind, though this time it was more direct.

“You’re really not special, Solo, but you work with someone like Kuryakin?” Bragg sneered. “Think you can land a good catch? That he would want you? You’re cannon fodder. Nothing but cannon fodder!”

“Fuck off!”

Another blow and this time the psychic blow cut deeply.

Napoleon saw stars, felt his walls crumble. His eyes widened.

Bragg looked suddenly fascinated, then he laughed roughly.

“Yeah, you’re not a Guide, alright,” he whispered. “I can see that. Oh, you’re more precious than I could have hoped for! Does your Sentinel know what a gem he has? What would he do if he lost you?”

Napoleon twisted his blood-smeared lips into a vicious grin. “Tear your guts out,” he snarled. “String the rest up and let the rats have you.”

Bragg laughed, a primal, guttural laugh that had Solo shiver. “I like you. Brave. Stupid, but brave.”

The pain was incredible, snatching the air from his lungs, blasting through him, red hot with an intensity that had him screaming.

“Let go of my partner."

It was a low growl, barely really human, but Napoleon would know that voice anywhere. His slightly glassy eyes fell on the blond Sentinel that was his partner and he managed a cocky grin. If all else failed, Napoleon could always fall back upon that persona. It was his second skin. It was easy.

“Hey, Peril. Come and join us,” he said, jovial voice and witty comebacks. “Our friend here was just about to call you out for a duel.”

Bragg snarled, animalistic and far from human. It was a challenge and it was directed at Illya, whose features seemed to shift slightly in response.

And then there was a knife.

There were breathless moments of pure adrenaline, trying to survive, feeling the weight of his much larger opponent, the fist slamming into his side, driving the breath out of him.

New pain exploded at the edge of his senses. Sharp. Fierce. Angry. The hot flare as the knife slid along his side.

There was a roar like an angry animal.

His mind drowned in a swell of fury, pain and soul-deep fear. It overwhelmed him, tore through his mind and soul, eradicated all that was him and replaced it with someone else.

No!

No, no, no!

He pushed. Hard. Sharp knives and even sharper claws tore at the other presence, pushed it back, and then there was a gasp like for a fresh breath of air.

His knees gave way.

The shadowy fox-thing was suddenly there, ethereal, barely even recognizable as anything but smoky gray waves, and the darkness had followed. The inky blackness, reaching for the light gray one, enveloping it.

Napoleon gave a confused gasp.

His vision, blurry and wavering, caught sight of Peril and the feral Sentinel trying to tear each other to pieces.

“No…" he whispered desperately. “Don’t…“

 

tbc...


	4. Chapter 4

His heart was racing, his pulse hammering in his ears. It was an infernal roar, drowning out all other sounds while simultaneously enhancing the smallest scratch of insect feet against the ground. His lungs expanded, his sense of smell dialed high, but not in the red zone, cataloguing the smallest scent.

Blood.

There was blood.

The clogging iron smell of freshly spilled blood.

He felt it, too. Sticky, on his fingers, his clothes, his face.

And despite the blood, he was aware of a unique scent, a unique flavor.

Illya’s mind was in uproar, his normally so iron control fraying as badly as it never had. The searing fire that was his never fully contained anger was still raging on and there was no relief in sight. He had tunnel vision, focusing only on one particular thing, listening to the shallow breaths and too fast heartbeat of one particular person. He was homing in on that sound, eager for every whisper, needing it like the air to breathe.

It was a heartbeat he had listened to unconsciously every day, had found soothing and comforting when it was near. He knew the soft thrum of the pulse, knew the scent lingering underneath the expensive cologne, enjoyed the sight of beard stubble and messy hair before it was slicked back.

But the heartbeat was his anchor.

Like now. The only thing keeping him human. Not the monster. It was there, darkness and all, but it had had its pound of flesh. Now it was looking.

For him.

Cowboy.

The most aggravating, audacious man in the world, but his presence balanced out the Sentinel in him, completely calmed down the feral side and let him take a breath now and then.

He didn’t need him to snap out of sense abuse or zones, he needed him to… be himself. Cowboy made him human.

Illya’s hands hurt. His knuckles were scraped raw. He had cuts and bruises everywhere, but the pain was just a distant hum. His jaw felt bruised, his ribs ached.

Something else was louder.

A siren’s call, another pain, a small flicker of a flame that was hidden behind so many shields that he couldn’t get to it. It was a flame that had been there for months now, always there, a beacon, burning in that darkness like it lived off it. It wasn’t extinguished by his surges, wasn’t drowned out. It grew stronger when he needed it, covering him like a blanket, soothing his nerves.

Solo. Napoleon Solo. The man who claimed he didn’t even register strongly enough to be considered a Guide, who had protections so insanely powerful, he had never stepped outside that near-impenetrable wall.

The man who had been taken by Lucius Bragg, had been beaten and his shields attacked.

Illya had felt it.

He had been keenly aware of each blow, heard the pained gasps, the sudden scream, and like a Sentinel bonded to a Guide he had felt Napoleon's shields crack more and more.

The murderous rage rushing through his veins had been almost too much to handle, but part of him had still remained. In control. So very much in control.

Unlike Bragg.

The man had been insane.

“Cowboy?” he breathed as he fell heavily onto his knees next to the other agent.

His ribs ached fiercely and he might have torn a muscle or two, maybe wrenched a finger.

He didn't care.

There was blood. His own. Napoleon’s. Too much of Napoleon’s.

Inside, the beast screeched in fury. Bragg. This was Bragg’s doing.

Red tinged his vision, but it wasn’t as overwhelming as before. It was anger, soul deep anger, but there was something flimsy and yet powerful holding onto him. Anchoring him.

Napoleon looked terrible. The large gash on his temple was bleeding, already forming a huge bruise that encompassed his cheekbone and eye. There were marks on his neck, as if Bragg had strangled him, and Illya’s highly dialed sense of touch palpated bruised ribs and too many bruise marks and contusions to count.

His lungs sounded clear, which was a relief, and there were no broken bones he was aware of.

Still, the rage was there, wanting out. It wanted to maim, tear into the flesh of the man who had dared hurt his partner. Illya wanted to fall into his innate darkness and kill. The urge was like a salivating beast, off its chains and still holding back.

Guarding.

Protecting.

He looked into the blue eyes and knew why.

Napoleon was barely conscious, struggling to keep awake. His eyes were half closed and he was too pale for Illya’s liking. The man’s shields wavered so badly, the Sentinel in Illya felt him like a living, breathing presence next to him.

Calming.

Wanted.

Warm.

Caring.

And powerful.

For the first time he truly experienced the mind that was Napoleon Solo it and it was like a song, a soft breeze, a strength born from deep inside an amazing mind. Napoleon had protected himself and gone underground, so to speak. He had never been trained, but Illya didn’t care.

This… this… He couldn’t put his need into words. So different, so fascinating, so… new.

The shields were just one sign of that power, that iron control, that had the other man hide from the world, and maybe even from himself.

Was he really aware of what he was, what he did on a regular basis without training? Yes, he used his low level of empathy to work a mark, to slip in and out, but that it didn't explain this knot of energy residing deep within.

_Who are you, Cowboy?_

Now here he was, bleeding from a knife wound, beaten up, not to mention the psychic wounds of a military Sentinel trying to break his shields. A feral Sentinel.

Kuryakin quickly checked where he knife had sliced into his partner’s flesh, then pushed down and elicited a groan from the other man.

“Fuck!”

Illya almost smiled. “A cut, not a stab wound. Will need stitches. It is deep.”

The blue eyes were screwed shut and Solo was breathing heavily through his teeth. His heartbeat was still steady, still calming Illya’s raw nerves, and the Sentinel’s touch was explorative and caressing in one.

“Got your sewing kit with you?” Solo mumbled.

“Safehouse.”

“Not such a good boy scout.”

He scowled, but it was lost on Solo, whose eyes were still closed.

Illya reached out and ran careful, almost tentative fingers over the bruise forming on the sharp cheek bone.

Something sizzled over his mind, curled around the surface of the Sentinel's mind, and it was almost loving. It was new and familiar in one. It was what he had always wanted without knowing it, what he didn't want to lose again.

Napoleon’s eyes snapped open and his fingers curled around Illya’s wrist.

“Don’t,” he managed, blood on his lips and drying on his chin, around his nose. “I’m not…”

Strong fingers kept caressing his face, a thumb rubbing over his cheek.

“You are.”

“Listen to me!” Solo ordered, voice sharper, cutting. It took all his strength. “I’m not a Guide. I’m not your Guide. I know this was intense and I’m quite grateful you saved my life, but this was a Sentinel fight. Bragg was feral. You reacted. You’re not in your right mind.” The fingers around Illya’s wrist tightened. “You’re feeling the rage, Peril. You gotta snap out of it!”

Reasonable voice, perfect pitch, rationality in every line. It soothed the beast and kept the human functional. This was a Guide talking and then again, not. There was no one asserting control over him, dragging him out of the red zone.

Napoleon was different.

So different from the ones the KGB had found for him.

The rage wasn't a problem. It had been replaced by a contentedness Illya had never experienced before. This, between them, was stronger than the teasing fragments of Solo he had picked up on before. It was a promise, a warmth, like coming home, and he wanted it. He wanted to sink into that and never let go.

The monster wasn’t a problem. It sat there, outside the cage, but it was more human than Illya had ever experienced it to be in all his life. It, the Sentinel, was looking at Napoleon with curious eyes.

“Not your Guide,” Solo insisted doggedly, sounding tired but still strong.

The stubbornness was in every cell of his body. Mulish, almost.

Illya smiled and leaned down, looking into the pain-filled eyes. He felt the thrum of the surface bond that had gone past the battered shields and had established itself.

“Peril? I’m serious. I’m not your Guide! I’m not anyone’s Guide!”

“You’re more,” he murmured.

“And you’re freaking me out.” Solo pushed at him and Illya allowed himself to be pushed back. “Where’s Bragg?”

His eyes fell on the unmoving form in the middle of what was left of the room.

“Oh.”

The man was most definitely dead. The broken neck was a clear indicator. Not to mention the blood pooling underneath him. No one could lose that much and still live.

“You… killed a feral Sentinel…”

“He wanted to kill you. No other choice. He was already gone, his Guide dead.”

Solo tried to sit up, but he only sank back with a pained cry. The ragged sound raced through Illya like it was his own pain.

“Safehouse,” he decided.

Napoleon’s eyes were screwed shut, but he made an affirmative sound. The blond carefully pulled up his injured partner, helping him out of the destroyed room and into their car.

Solo breathed deeply, one hand pressed against the knife wound, the dressing on it already soaked red.

“Cowboy?”

Blue eyes, tinged in pain, opened and Napoleon gave him a trademark grin. “I’m good, Peril.”

Illya doubted it. He felt it. He could sense the spikes of pain, was acutely aware of every labored breath, every wince, every stuttered moan.

He wanted to cradle the man close, wanted to soothe the pain, but he couldn't.

Right now he had to get Napoleon to the safehouse, treat the wounds. Everything else that had happened between them had to wait.

 

 

They were extracted no two hours later and Napoleon spent the night in the approved hospital, with fresh stitches in his side, hurting all over, feeling dizzy. The doctor was both an U.N.C.L.E. operative and knowledgeable concerning Sentinels and Guides.

Napoleon had no energy to argue right now. Maybe it was best for Illya to have this man treat his partner than anyone else, someone who had no clue what might happen if the agent lost it over some stupid mistake made.

He was too cold, his stomach empty as he couldn’t find the appetite to eat, and he found no sleep.

Bragg’s attack was replaying in his mind. Not the physical one; that he could live with. It was the relentless cutting and digging at his shields, the triumphant sneer, and the terrible wave of viciousness when he had caught sight of what lay underneath.

A nurse gave him a sedative, forcing his overwrought brain into submission.

 

 

He woke again to a world of pain, to a pounding headache behind his eyes, to the sensation of deep bruises and torn muscles. But worst of all was his battered mind, the bruise so deep and heavy, he couldn’t catch a clear thought.

The first sense that returned that of sound. There as a muffled murmuring; nothing clear.

Then there was sight. Through his closed eyelids, Napoleon picked up lights. He couldn't crack his eyes open, though. It was just too hard.

Then came touch. He was lying on something reasonably comfortable.

And it smelled.... sterile.

Then came the pain. It was a brief stab in his lower left side. Napoleon winced and bit back a moan, his throat too dry to actually voice the pain. He must have made a sound anyway, because suddenly there was someone next to him.

He tensed.

Memories flooded back. Memories of a fight, of danger, adrenaline rushing through him. Trying to survive.

He gasped, muscles contracting as his brain sent out impulses to his body. Fight. He had to fight.

A hand curled around one arm, pushing the twitching limb down. He heard the soothing murmur of the voice he knew, though he couldn't make out the words.

There was a hoarse croak that had to have been him.

Desperation rose inside him, cold and biting at his very core.

He was vulnerable. Almost completely open for the first time in his life. First Madeleine, then Bragg.

Napoleon couldn't remember a time he had ever felt this bad and with every breath he took, with every fiery pulse that ran down his spine, it grew worse. He heard a soft groan that had to be his own, heard whimpers and protests.

And then there was a gentle presence brushing over his overwrought mind. He felt coolness, softness, a cocoon of safety.

It was a wave of intense white heat, coursing through his veins, removing all traces of where Bragg had dared touch him. It cauterized wounds, brushed over the pain and let it disappear.

The by now familiar inky darkness flowed in wake of the whiteness, enveloped him, kept him from harm, soothing the overtaxed brain.

Bragg had attacked his mind, had torn at his shields. He needed to heal it. He needed somewhere safe.

Right now he felt safe, like never before.

Napoleon let himself fall.

Safe.

 

 

He never caught sight of the shadowy figure sitting next to his bed, watching his every move, that listened to his heartbeat, his breaths.

 

*

 

Illya had slipped into the dark, silent hospital room, his senses immediately trained on the restlessly sleeping man. He didn’t think when he closed the door and approached the bed like a shadow in the night. His senses reached out, catalogued every inch of his partner, better than any medical equipment in analyzing him. Napoleon quieted down almost right away, expelling a breath that sounded like relief.

The blond took a seat, the darkness of no consequence to him. The meager light from outside and from the instruments in the room was enough for the Sentinel.

He wanted to touch the lax hand, run explorative fingers over the sharp features. He wanted to feel the depth of the bruises. He wanted to soothe the pain.

Something called out to him.

Something strong.

A myriad of emotions crashed down on him and he fought through the wave, never showing a single twitch.

This man… he was special. Not like a Guide to his Sentinel, but close. He wasn’t like anyone he had ever worked with, had ever been presented as a possible Guide. And now that he was hurt, had been attacked by a feral Sentinel, Illya’s instincts were running haywire, though he wasn’t in the red zone or even close.

He felt insanely protective, like he never had before. He wanted to bundle Napoleon up, take him to a place where he was assured that nothing could happen to them, but Illya was far from going into a primal mode.

He had never in all his life become primal.

Illya finally did touch one hand and while it wasn’t the birth of a new bond, blooming to life and enveloping his senses, soothing him and giving him his missing half as so many Sentinels claimed, it was more than just a touch.

He reached out, brushing over the shields, pressing close. Part of him still fought the need, another didn't give a damn.

Illya had never felt the desire to bond, there had been no urge, no drive, no primal hunger. Always control.

But for the first time, that control was no longer a sharp-edged sword.

For the first time there was calmness.

He breathed out a sigh of relief, fingers sliding over the soft skin of the pulse point, counting.

 

*

 

When Napoleon woke again the pain was manageable. Blue eyes blinked open, met by filtered sunlight coming through the closed blinds.

The headache was only a low hum now and the bruised feeling had abated.

His shields were almost complete again.

It confused him, but right now every thought was too slow and too hard to follow.

So he didn’t.

 

*

 

Gaby watched their resident Sentinel and shook her head.

Idiots.

Both of them.

She knew Solo wasn’t a Guide, not by anyone’s standards anyway, and Illya was more of a broken Sentinel than a functional one. To be unbonded like he was for so long, always controlled, always fighting the other side inside of him, wasn’t healthy. It couldn’t be.

Sure, he had all of his senses at his beck and call, he could use them on a mission, but there was more to being what he was than just that.

The KGB had made him this way, maybe even on purpose. He was a lethal agent, dependent on no one, could operate without backup.

But it tore him apart.

Solo was what he needed, even if he had never tested positive to be bonded to a Sentinel.

Maybe this, whatever it was, could only happen between them.

Gaby sighed and left the brooding Russian to himself. Illya wouldn’t be swayed from the hospital and Waverly wanted a report. Gaby was convinced he knew exactly what he had invited into their team, who those two men were and could be for one another.

He was waiting.

Like Gaby was, too.

 

tbc...


	5. Chapter 5

Napoleon left the hospital AMA, and much to Illya’s disapproval the following morning. The doctor had checked him, though with a deep frown and sharp words that had expressed his misgivings.

Of Kuryakin there had been no sign. Not even Gaby.

Illya had appeared like a ghost when Napoleon had left the building, moving slowly, carefully, a hand always hovering close to the stitched wound.

“I’m fine, Peril. Had worse, with no medical treatment."

The blond brows lowered, the whole man tensing even more. “No reason to leave now, Cowboy."

“I hate hospitals," he simply replied. “And what can they do? My bruises will disappear. I can remove the stitches myself. And my headache is gone."

Which was another thing he was confused over.

Illya was actually doing his looming now, clearly pissed at something, though it was most likely Napoleon himself, and his hands clenched and unclenched. Solo didn’t see any other signs of a rage attack. This wasn’t the Sentinel losing control. This was something else.

“Can we go now? We have a perfectly nice penthouse that I plan to use to the fullest. I even let you drive."

“I am driving anyway, Cowboy. You are not fit behind the wheel."

“I’ve driven with a concussion and a broken arm in Prague."

“Not in Prague," Illya stated matter of fact and with a finality, it warned Napoleon not to continue arguing.

But he did. He was born arguing.

“I’m completely fine, Peril! I don’t need a bodyguard or a babysitter!"

“Then I’ll just be a friend."

“You are a nuisance."

“Thank you."

“Not a compliment, Peril. Not a compliment."

Illya’s only response was a half-smile as he firmly but gently maneuvered Napoleon toward the passenger side of the car.

 

*

 

The tension between them was thick enough to cut with a knife. The whole drive had been in silence, the dark clouds over the Sentinel's head almost visible.

Napoleon had refused to be baited.

 

 

He had it up to his eyebrows half an hour later when they were in the penthouse and Peril was still there.

The Sentinel was there.

A strong presence pushing against his shields and making itself known. Napoleon hadn't forgotten what had happened, that Illya had killed Bragg, had called him a Guide.

And he remembered the vortex of energy that was strong enough to erase him completely.

Napoleon Solo never confessed to it, but he was scared. Terrified actually.

So he fought back with words.

“You make a grumpy nurse, my friend,” he told the hovering man who was dressed in his habitual black turtleneck with matching black pants, appearing dark and imposing.

The frown and the cold, hard expression in his eyes didn’t help. Well, not completely cold and hard. Napoleon detected the sliver of worry and fear despite Illya’s iron control on his emotions.

Emotions that flared now and then. He could see it in the way his hands clenched, or his eyes twitched a little. And he felt them. So easily.

“You make an even worse patient!” Kuryakin snapped, eyes blazing.

And then he was gone, leaving a perplexed Napoleon behind.

 

 

He had slept twelve hours straight, hadn’t woken, not even to the sunlight streaming through the windows, and only the need to go to the bathroom had finally roused him enough to set foot out of the bed.

A shower revived him a bit more, but Napoleon still felt like packed in cotton wool, on top of being bundled up in a very thick blanket and buried in fluffy feathers. His brain was mush, but not in the bad way it had been a few days ago. He felt no pain, just groggy and sluggish.

Dragging himself into the kitchen, he rummaged through the fully stocked cabinets. There was everything his heart could desire in here, with the promise should anything be missing, the discrete service the apartment building offered could get him.

Napoleon was drawn between calling in a full breakfast and just whipping up something simple and filling.

He finally decided on the latter. Right now he wasn't feeling up to sophistication and finesse.

While the waffles were in the toaster, he emptied a glass of orange juice, wondering what was missing.

He blinked.

Oh.

Peril.

Illya wasn't here and it was… an Illya-shaped hole. He had never felt it so acutely than now.

He missed his partner.

 

 

It was Gaby who finally waltzed into the penthouse, looked around, and shook her head.

"He's not here and hasn't been here," she stated.

"And a good day to you, too."

"We have our tickets back home. Tomorrow. Eight sharp." She slapped a piece of paper on his table.

"What got into your coffee this morning?"

She glared at him, arms folded in front of her chest. "I feel like the babysitter to a bunch of toddlers!" Gaby told him sharply. "Illya is off sulking somewhere. I don't mean destroying anyone's property and turning a perfectly good hotel room into a battle field. I mean actual sulking! In anyone else I'd say it's pining. Do you know what that looks like in a KGB agent?”

“He isn’t KGB any longer,” Napoleon heard himself arguing automatically.

Gaby wasn’t deterred. She looked ready to kill him herself right now. “And you! You look like roadkill!”

“Feral Sentinel.”

Now those eyes were truly blazing.

“Something happened back there that had him kill another Sentinel with his bare hands and a knife. Something very bad." She leaned forward, fixing him with steely eyes. "Fix it, Solo!"

"I did nothing!" he protested automatically.

"Then maybe that is the problem."

"I don't know what you're talking about!" he shot back.

Gaby's expression turned murderous. "I know what your file says, Solo. You're not a Guide, just a low level empath. Know what? I don't believe it. Bullshit. I've seen Illya. I've seen what this did to him!"

Napoleon opened his mouth to say something, but she didn't give him a chance.

"This? This isn't a colleague worrying about a fellow agent! This is a Sentinel about to take on the world to keep someone very close to him safe. Whatever you are, Napoleon Solo, he wants that. And you want him!" Gaby threw up her hands. "Men! How can you flirt your way into every mark's bed and not see what's right in front of your eyes? Now fix this!"

Napoleon felt himself crumble a little, but instinct had him uphold his composure. “I don’t think I can.”

“What do you fear?” she demanded. “This is Illya we’re talking about!”

“And that’s the problem,” he replied softly.

Gaby stared at him, almost shocked. “What?”

“Do you know how strong he is? Do you know what kind of Sentinel it takes to comes this far in his life without a zone? He’s a supernova and he will burn everything that touches him.”

Her face softened all of a sudden. “Oh, Solo… How can you be such a top agent and not see the truth?”

He blinked.

“Illya… he wouldn’t hurt you. Not even unconsciously. When a Sentinel finds their match… Guide or not… they won’t hurt that.”

“How do you know?”

And he felt suddenly vulnerable, open, even to her. Looking at the woman who was such a force to be reckoned with, despite her size, he didn’t even pull away when she placed a hand on her arm, gently rubbing it.

“Because I have eyes. And I know about Sentinel-Guide bonding a little. I can see how he looks at you, Solo. Even without that connection, he likes you a lot more than as just a colleague and fellow agent. And you do, too.”

He swallowed, then firmly slipped back into a mask as he stepped away from her.

Gaby sighed. “Fix it,” she repeated. “Please. You will both implode if you don’t.”

She turned sharply on her heels and was gone.

For the first time in his life as a thief, con man and agent, Napoleon Solo was stunned into silence. He watched Gaby go, his heart beating wildly, his stomach a hard knot.

Her words had hit something. Bull's eye. Dead center. Deadly precision.

Napoleon buried his head in his hands with a silent groan.

 

* * *

 

Waverly didn’t look too upset about Bragg’s violent demise. There was a glint in his eyes, though. A thoughtful twist to his lips as he studied the two men, one battered and still a little pale, the other a mountain of silence.

“Two weeks of downtime, gentlemen. You’ll be contacted about your next mission then. Dismissed.”

Illya gave their boss a narrow-eyed look, then nodded briskly and left. Napoleon followed, still aching, but so much better than he would have thought after a psychic attack by a feral Sentinel.

The cut in his side paled in comparison to what he had endured on a psychic level. It was a flesh wound. It would heal.

His shields, though… That had been nearly a massacre, and it still ached when he thought about it. Like the chair. The electricity racing through him.

He tried to project his usual brazen, careless and unruffled facade, but he knew he couldn’t pull it off when facing someone who knew him better.

Who, in that short time of working together, had seen behind Napoleon Solo’s mask too many times.

He was an emotional mess.

 

 

He should have packed his bags and gone off to Italy or Spain, maybe Monaco, but Napoleon had felt at a loss after coming to his current place of residence. It was a small house on the outskirts of London, a rental unit that actually belonged to the organization was frequently given to agents between missions. Right now it was Napoleon’s, but he didn’t call it home.

Home was… nowhere.

He carried few personal belongings with him. So nothing in this building would give a visitor a clue as to who lived here.

Napoleon gazed out over the back garden, feeling unsettled, unbalanced, like something was missing. He wanted to move, but he had no idea where to go. He wanted to be somewhere else, enjoy life for two weeks until Waverly dumped something else in their laps that had them running all over a foreign country to find and retrieve, or neutralize.

But none of his usual vacation places held any charm.

He couldn’t make up his mind, and his mind was a wounded place to be right now. He had been injured in a way no doctor could treat.

It made him… vulnerable. No longer an asset, just a liability.

Guides could heal their minds through mental exercises and meditation. It was a known fact, but Solo knew that wasn’t it for him. He wasn’t a Guide and never would be. And meditation had never worked for him either.

Not that he had tried before.

He was different, his mind worked in a different way, and while he might have used that strange talent to get what he wanted, he would never be able to balance a Sentinel.

Illya.

The man who had such iron control and was still so volatile and easy to rile up that he was like a wrecking ball in the field. A man who was the most focused agent Napoleon had ever worked with on a mission. A man he liked, a lot, really, had been trusting for too long to really think about, and who bickered with him, replied to his teasing and taunting, and was a steady rock in a violent sea.

Napoleon expelled a breath and turned away from the view of scraggly trees that had yet to turn green with the approaching spring. It was an abysmal weather outside, raining continuously now since last night, the ground soaking wet and muddy.

Gaby was right in her assessment. He liked Illya. He wanted more than what they had, but he was terrified of a full bond.

He was so utterly fucked. Bruised, battered, compromised in too many ways, and now useless.

Two weeks and he had no idea if he could do it.

He was pathetic.

He paced the small kitchen and his eyes fell on the well-worn copy of the old book from Budapest. It had thrown up more questions than answered them.

Guides and Sentinels were known. The shades of gray between those two were largely unexplored. Napoleon was an anchor line, a buffer, a warden. He was passive unless threatened. At least that was what he gleaned from those ancient pages. He was the aberration of a Guide. Inactive. What Sentinel wanted this? What Sentinel needed someone like that? They didn't need protection because Sentinels were protectors themselves.

Yes, he was pathetic.

And did Napoleon really want to be saddled with someone who depended on him to manage his hyperactive senses? He had never been trained. He had no idea what he was doing.

Third-rate.

A twisted smile graced his lips.

That sounded just about right.

A terrible spy, an inept Guide.

He stalked out into the living room and stopped dead in his tracks when he found he wasn’t alone.

It spoke volumes that he hadn’t picked up on this tightly coiled ball of aggressive energy currently taking up way too much space in his home. Napoleon's focus was shit. Gone to hell in a handbasket.

Tall, blond, too handsome for his own good, and scowling like Napoleon had just personally pissed on his shoes.

Solo almost laughed. Now there was a funny image.

“Peril! You should have called before breaking and entering. I would have made dinner,” he greeted his guest jauntily.

If all else failed… fake it.

Glacially blue eyes bore into him. Illya looked truly angry. Aggression rolled off him in razor-sharp waves. To Napoleon’s fractured mind and his wavering talent he seemed like a looming wall of darkness in the middle of his turmoil, ready to strike -- and still not dangerous.

To him.

Not dangerous to him.

More like… intensely protective.

“You are a Guide, Napoleon Solo.”

Illya Kuryakin, ladies and gentlemen! No beating around the bush. The man was unrelenting.

“What? No!” Napoleon bristled, but he couldn't hide the panic in his voice.

He hadn't been this close to breaking in the electric chair. He had never been this close to breaking ever.

The darkness rose, twisting and coiling closer. Alive and powerful, ready to strike out.

Oh shit, ran through his mind. Shitshitshit.

“I can sense it,” the blond stated, voice a deep growl. “You hid, but something happened to you. Bragg did this to you. I can feel you.”

There was no way this was going to end well.

“I. Am. Not. A. Guide!” he yelled, furious. “I’ve never been and never will be! Why do I have to repeat myself over and over again?!”

He was pushing it at Illya full force now, not caring what the Sentinel might think he was or not by this display. He was fed up and completely done with all of it. He wanted… he wanted Illya and he didn't. He was terrified of that sharp mind on a level that no one who wasn't an empath could ever hope to understand. He knew there was a vicious predator, an untamed beast, but there was also more.

Waverly had once called the Russian special. That moment aboard the chopper. That one sentence, more teasing, but it now resurfaced in Napoleon's mind.

Peril was special. In so many ways.

And then Illya was there, right in front of him, 6’5” of muscle and determination.

The Sentinel pushed at the tiny sliver of contact between them, that fledgling surface connection, and Napoleon winced back, surprise reflecting on his features.

Illya pushed again.

Napoleon didn’t think; he reacted.

He didn’t want to die.

Fear, past pain, the recent attacks, first Jaime, then Bragg, it all fell together in one violent explosion.

He lashed out.

 

*

 

Illya had grudgingly accepted the time off, though he planned not to go anywhere. At least nowhere where Napoleon Solo wasn’t, too.

So he trailed his partner to the house he lived in while both were in London, watching the building, the rather quiet and lonely road it was on, for some time. Solo hadn't even tried to get rid of the tracker on him. Not that Illya really needed it.

He felt the other man’s presence. Now that he had gotten a sense of the Guide, the bond, he knew where he was all the time. He could feel him, that faint thrum of energy, and he yearned for it.

Guide.

The man was a Guide.

Or something intensely close to a Guide. He was strong, his mind powerful, and he felt so incredibly, intimately familiar. Powerfully shielded, hidden so well no other Sentinel or Guide they had run into throughout their missions had ever identified him. Illya himself was easily seen by others, but Napoleon?

He almost smiled with dark satisfaction.

His partner was tricky. He was truly a good thief, stealing more than just valuables, and he was talented. Illya felt pride rise inside him.

Napoleon Solo. A man of many faces and masks, and for the first time someone had seen beyond the façade. Illya had touched him, had gotten a taste of the power, and he had felt the calmness that had come over him.

Napoleon was his calm center. Cowboy was his anchor. He was a buffer against the world, warding off what would normally rile up the A-level Sentinel and throw him into a rage fit.

There had been none of those whenever Napoleon had been around.

Only without him.

His Shield.

Yes. That sounded about right. Napoleon was his armor and his shield.

For the first time in his life, he wanted something so badly that he would fight for it. Something only for himself, not his country. Something… Someone. That it came in a package that was also desirable was just the icing on the cake.

Illya looked at the other man, took in the curl of fear in his expression, the too bright eyes that held an almost wounded look.

Napoleon's masks were sliding apart. The cool agent exterior, the man who was unruffled and appeared so in control of any situation, was coming apart.

He carefully reached out and pushed against the shields.

What he got was a blow, both physically and mentally. The psychic attack was powerful, but it glanced off the steel ball that was Illya's mind, and the darkness rippled. He was fascinated by what he felt, that innate power, that sudden explosion. It was a demonstration of what lurked behind those strong shields.

It made Napoleon even more attractive than he already was. He was beacon that broadcast only to Illya, to the Sentinel. The physical pull was incredible.

This was what finding one's Guide had to be like.

Just… not.

It was confusing, so very strange and new, but it drew Kuryakin in. Made him want more.

Illya caught the fist easily, holding on to the other man’s wrist with gentle strength. Solo had been desperate in his physical attack. It had been harsh, yes, but not dangerous.

Blue eyes widened, the breathing too fast, almost panicking, and Illya wanted to lose himself in those eyes. He wanted this more than anything he had ever wanted before. None of the KGB-trained Guides had been this… this close and perfect. They had been tools, not a shield, not active and powerful, ready to defend or attack.

He pushed again, careful not to copy anything Bragg might have done. The mere thought of that animal attacking his partner had him want to kill him all over again.

But Napoleon still balked, the scent of betrayal mixed with terror heavy in his nose.

“I won’t hurt you," he murmured, gently squeezing the trapped wrist.

He never would. Not this man.

The terror was still there, Napoleon almost curling in on himself to get away from the power Illya presented.

“You know me, Cowboy. You know I’m not like him. Please?"

Napoleon gave an almost inaudible groan.

Illya pushed.

This time they yielded easily, opening up instead of breaking apart.

Welcoming.

It wasn't a raid on Napoleon's mind. It wasn't an attack. It was finding the greatest treasure, sliding past all defenses because he was recognized and welcomed.

Napoleon wanted him. That primal part inside him wanted him.

“You are… my anchor,” he murmured, crowding closer to the American, looking into the wide eyes that now filled with the first edges of panic as the Sentinel came so much closer. “You ground me.”

“Listen, Peril, whatever you think I am… I’m not! I was tested…” came the desperate whisper and Solo shook his head.

But his mind still drew Illya in, wanted him near, fighting old memories with the present, with the realization that Illya wasn’t a conqueror.

“Faked.”

“What?!”

“You weaseled your way out of it, am I correct? Maybe no consciously, but you faked. A bluff? You are not a Guide, true, but you are more. So strongly shielded, you register not at all. But I know you, Cowboy. Now I do. You are a shield. Mine. You are my armor.”

Napoleon tried to move away, but behind him was only the wall. The Sentinel waited whether or not his Shield was going to make a run for it, attack him, but deep down he knew Solo wouldn’t be able to. He wouldn’t fight him.

“You’re already attuned to me. I didn’t notice. I might never have. You… touch me.”

“What?!”

“Here.” He placed a hand on his chest, sounding almost shy. “You touch the darkness. You anchor it, give it… a place within me.”

“Listen…”

Illya shook his head and gently pushed again. Napoleon put up a brief fight, but he reacted to the powerful Sentinel. Almost without hesitation.

“No, Peril, listen… If you… Don’t do this! It’ll wipe my mind! You burn through Guides!”

“You are different. You are not a Guide.” He sounded almost smug, repeating what the American had so insisted upon.

“I’m low-level, whatever you think what else I am! I can’t…” He fell silent, eyes darting around, trying to find a way out. “Why?” he wanted to know. “Why? Why want a Guide right now? You ran without one for so long, never needed one, especially someone like me!”

Illya boxed him in with his arms, towering over the dark-haired American, using his four inches on the man to his advantage, his senses all over Solo like he had never taken him in before. There was a ragged edge to him, wild, untamed, needing something he had never put into words.

“You are correct. I do not want a Guide. No one was ever my equal. They gave me low level empaths. I know I wouldn’t have wanted A-levels either. No one ever touched the darkness and stayed… sane. They flinched away, were scared…”

“You destroyed them! You tore apart their minds, Peril!”

“They did that to themselves. I am in control, Cowboy. Of my senses. All the time. I never needed someone to control it. They were an intrusion.”

Napoleon’s expression shifted from confusion to anger. “Then why?!”

“Control only goes so far until it shifts. My temper… is proof of that. I am… a weapon. Blunt instrument."

That was what he had been told coldly countless times. He was nothing but a tool to be used. Illya had heard the mocking words of fellow agents that if not for his five sharpened senses, he would be a dumb bodyguard, a dog to be let lose when needed. The KGB had only considered him as an agent because he was a Sentinel.

No refinement, though. Front line fighter. Monster. Abomination of a Sentinel. A finger on the trigger, nothing but a hit man. Maim, disable, destroy, and kill. His intelligence had been mocked too many times as well. He was a stupid grunt with an extraordinary gift, one handler had told him right into his face. That was why he needed no Guide.

And why the Guides he had been paired with had been burned.

“There is no balance. You are that balance.”

“Balance. Not control.” Napoleon sounded wary.

Illya nodded, now so close he could feel the bond between them like a living, breathing thing. It sparked wildly now and then, and he wanted more. So much more. It was a hum in the back of his mind, like a song, just for them.

He felt the incredible psychic force that lurked underneath the unsuspecting exterior. Napoleon. The man had no idea...

Illya wanted it. He wanted to feel it. He wanted to be anchored in this.

“You are that for me, Cowboy. You. Loud-mouthed, infuriating, womanizing, terrible spy that you are.”

“Hey!”

Kuryakin smiled, lips curving gently, and he pushed once more. Careful, never overpowering, so very different from his temper outbreaks.

Solo closed his eyes, a soft groan escaping his lips. He swallowed.

“I’m not… what you expect."

“Figured that out within minutes chasing you through East Berlin."

Napoleon shot him a dark look. “I don’t meditate, Peril. I’m not the most balanced person to be around. Hell, I can’t bring anyone out of a zone. I’m not Guide material. You’re a Sentinel."

"I know what I am." Illya gave him an unimpressed look. “Do I strike you as in need of a Guide?"

“Then what do you want?!" he demanded, anger rising briefly until he had it under control again. “You work without a Guide! You have control and balance isn’t my strength! This… won’t work.”

“It will. We match. I wouldn’t be able to feel you if we weren’t.”

“I forget. You had your share of pretty little Guides for kicks!”

The Russian snorted inelegantly. “You are far from pretty.”

“Hey!” he exclaimed again and the blue eyes flew open, affronted.

He cupped the chiseled face, thumb rubbing over the fading bruise. “Handsome,” he said fondly.

“Huh. Better.”

But there was an insecurity there, a vulnerability that usually never showed through the many layers of masks Napoleon Solo wore. This wasn’t a mask. Right now he was completely open.

“I care about you,” he murmured.

More than he should, more than anything that had ever mattered to him.

Illya leaned down and briefly pushed their lips together. It was hesitant, but polite; quizzical and still firm. He simultaneously pushed at the yielding shields and they parted more, flowing away from him, surrounding the Sentinel and drawing him in. Solo’s mouth opened up under the gentle assault, hungry, desperate.

And then the bond hummed into life. Napoleon rocked back, the kiss broken, and wide eyes met Illya’s gaze. His mouth opened in astonishment, then snapped shut. He could see the internal battle raging through the American agent, clearly still fighting what was no clean-cut and easy now.

The need rose between them like a tidal wave.

Napoleon wanted him. Desperately. Illya had been aware of the looks, the appreciative glances, but he had never let himself react, though he wanted to.

Illya had always called it a fatal attraction. Napoleon Solo was a dangerous man. Very dangerous.

And something else. Something that rang like a Guide, but not really. He had nothing to compare this to but the poor souls the KGB had let him almost literally slaughter on a mental level.

Napoleon didn't feel like them.

Not weak. Never weak. Not a victim.

He wanted him.

He wanted everything.

For the first time since he had come online as a Sentinel, Illya wanted someone like this. Because he knew that this was what the Sentinel side was missing. A different kind of partner.

Freely bonded to him. Not KGB selected or trained.

Napoleon.

“I won’t hurt you,” he promised. “I won’t.”

 

tbc...


	6. Chapter 6

The blue was to drown in and Napoleon scrabbled for a hold, unable to let himself fall. Part of him knew what this was, that this was what he had wanted all his life, but another part, the independent one, snarled that giving in would be submission. He wasn’t going to just roll on his back and bare his throat. He wouldn’t fall for the overpowering, dominant male. He wouldn’t shy away and evade those icy eyes.

A callused hand gently cupped his neck, the rough thumb stroking over his skin. Illya could easily break his neck. Restrict his air flow, do unspeakable things to him. He was a trained killer. He knew ways to torture and kill that wouldn’t leave a trace.

And yet…

It was complicated; and so much more.

Inside him, everything was in turmoil. His mind was screaming at him to get away, that staying would be a bad idea.

Looking into the eyes of this cold-blooded creature, able to flick a switch and feel nothing at all as he took a life, Napoleon had never felt safer than now. Meeting the gaze of the predator lurking deep inside the Russian agent, Solo wanted nothing more than to take away the shields and face it fully. He wanted this man unrestrained, casting away civility and all his pretention, and just be… who he truly was.

A Sentinel. A-class. Alpha. Insanely powerful even without a Guide, but with a balance he would be unstoppable.

This Sentinel wanted him. Napoleon Solo. Thief. Criminal. CIA agent. Womanizer. Gambler.

Shield.

Buffer, balance, guardian.

Anchor.

Those lethal fingers brushed over his cheek, then carded into his hair. Gentle. So very gentle. Hands that handled guns, knives and explosives. They were weapons, they had killed, had broken necks.

The touch was real, grounding. It was deeper than skin on skin. It seeped into his very cells and was more than any other human being could give him.

Napoleon started to tremble involuntarily. His body was shaking and he couldn’t seem to stop it.

He drew a deep breath.

He knew he could take this; suddenly he knew in complete clarity that he could endure a Sentinel’s psychic touch.

This special Sentinel’s. Broken and held together by sheer force of will, a weapon shaped by his handlers to be used without counterbalance. His explosions of fury guided and misused for their purposes.

Nothing could tame this.

Napoleon could touch it, though. Without frying his brain, without getting torn apart, without changing this man or himself.

He would guard it, not use it. He would balance the temper with the gentleness. He would buffer the world for Illya and shield him.

Looking into those glacial eyes, now warmed with an emotion he hadn’t even seen there when Illya had looked at Gaby, he realized he could do this. The bond wouldn’t overwhelm him.

The tightness in his chest, one he hadn’t really been aware of until now, suddenly eased.

He wouldn’t drown. He wouldn’t shatter. He wouldn’t even break. If he would be in danger of any such thing, the Sentinel would never have made his move.

Illya leaned forward, resting his forehead against Napoleon’s, the contact so much more intimate than anything else. His other hand slid over Solo’s hip and around his back, holding the man without trapping him completely. Strong fingers traced the small portion of Napoleon’s spine that he had access too. Dangerous, deadly hands on his body, so soft and gentle in their caress, so intimate.

“Illya…”

“It is the right thing to do. The only thing.”

“There is no going back, Peril. Never.”

“Why would I want to?”

“We’re not even on the same side…”

“We work for U.N.C.L.E. Not KGB. Not CIA. International cooperation.”

And above all was the Sentinel-Guide law. If a bond established, breaking it was impossible to do. An American Shield to a Russian Sentinel. It would bring up all kinds of complications, but they wouldn’t be the first pairing from politically two very opposed countries.

“You are my armor,” Illya repeated. “My protection. Mine. The only one.”

Napoleon closed his eyes, the tremors inside him both of fear and exhilaration.

“I’m not trained. I was tested too low to be considered…”

“Cowboy?”

“Huh?”

“Shut up.”

And Illya leaned in again.

The contact was electric, frizzing through him, making him want things he had denied himself so often before. It was something that would set into motion so many things, such uncontrollable things, Solo balked at it. Still, he yearned.

He saw the same yearning in the blue, blue eyes. The hunger, the need, the brittle chains keeping in check a super-predator.

Napoleon wasn’t prey. He wasn’t a new chain. He was more. He was a missing part.

“This is such a bad idea, Peril.”

“My very best.”

And the lips were back, so gentle and yet so demanding. The thumb kept caressing him, kept maddeningly distracting his mind. It sent a cascading warmth through him that had Napoleon want to do a lot of things, not all of them safe.

Safe for him, safe for Illya.

“If we go this way…”

“We already have, Cowboy.”

“We’re not bonding," he protested. “I can’t…“

“You can. You already have. Not the regular way. Of course not the regular way." Illya sounded amused, eye reflecting his humor. "Regular isn’t your style."

“But I‘m not… I don’t have what it takes, Peril! My brain doesn’t work that way!"

“Don’t care."

“You’re not fighting this a lot.”

"I wouldn't feel this way if it was a bad bond."

Illya’s slow smile was as dangerous as it was enticing. And inside the smile, inside those glacial eyes, warmed by emotions that Solo was trying to understand, there it was. Waiting, ready to strike, beautiful and deadly and so desirable. And so dark. So terribly dark. Always hungry, always ready to sink its claws into a victim, draw blood. It was vicious, deadly, and out of control. It overpowered this strong Sentinel, turned him into a rage monster, but he could fight it down every time.

No, Kuryakin wasn’t fighting this. He had fought everything else in his life, including the psychotic episodes, but this… this he craved, had craved since he had come online.

“We’ll be perfect together,” the blond murmured against his lips.

“We’ll be terrible together,” Napoleon countered.

White teeth flashed a predatory smile.

“We’ll explode."

“Already have. Destroyed a toilet."

Napoleon gave a weak kind of laugh.

“You," Illya rumbled. “Let me see you, Napoleon."

His given name… no one ever called him that. It was so intimately private between them, something… new. Illya had never called him Napoleon.

And for the first time Napoleon Solo surrendered to a Sentinel, to the desire inside him to be touched in a way no one else could.

No one but this man.

“Mine,” Illya breathed as he lightly bit Napoleon’s lower lip. He sounded proud.

“Mine,” Solo replied and pushed back against the other man, the next kiss filled with a lot more passion.

 

 

The made it to the bed somehow.

 

 

It was a close call.

 

 

“Let go,” Illya begged. “Please.”

“Illya…”

“I’ve got you. Won’t hurt you. Ever. Safe. You’re safe.”

He would be there. He wouldn’t let him fall apart.

Hands mapped over his skin, sliding over old scars and new. He had lost his shirt somehow, probably between the bedroom and the hallway. His pants were undone and he stumbled out of them.

“Please,” came the rough plea. “Please.”

Anchoring meant a two-way road. He could strike at the open mind just as easily as he could kill a man with his bare hands. Napoleon was hit by that realization and it sent an electric charge through him.

This wasn’t just about him anymore.

Napoleon would be open to his Sentinel, vulnerable, but also Illya's greatest strength. And Illya would be just as open and vulnerable.

“I need you with me.”

That one sentence launched a myriad of emotions.

Illya's face was open, nothing but the truth reflected in his eyes.

"Cowboy…"

“I trust you,” he finally whispered.

His lips were caught, his words silenced by a hard, hungry and slightly desperate kiss.

Pent-up lust and need and emotions broke free and Napoleon felt them all tumble through him.

He caught flickers, sensations, and it was more than anyone could put into words.

A soft groan from Illya only spurned him on, made him deepen the kiss.

 

*

 

With Napoleon’s surrender of his last shields the bond flared to live even before they had done more than kiss and fumble through undressing each other. It settled deeply within their souls and minds, unbreakable. Napoleon felt all his personal shields go down, his very self open to the other man, his soul for him to read. No lies, no masks, nothing.

The world didn't stop, but it creaked on its axis.

And he saw the Sentinel as he truly was, that passionate, fiery thing, that creature born into Hell and trying to survive. There was inky darkness, smooth and cold, and glacial fire, blue flames licking toward him but not burning. It was fascinating, deep and dark, enticing, none of it at all threatening.

Napoleon was drawn in, amazed and riveted by the coiling energies, felt them lick at his very own core, and he smiled. He reached out and calmed the hellish fire within, the beast. He was almost able to pinpoint where the link between them was located. Like a solid anchor point inside him, just there, just like that, and not going anywhere.

So smooth and silky and promising. A fire burned within the ice, dangerous and volatile and very, very lethal.

Solo moved closer, wrapping himself around the darkness, weaving through it, felt the waves calm immediately and part, allowing him access.

He was the Shield and was shielded in turn. He was the anchor and the anchor line went right back toward him.

It was breathtaking.

“So strong,” the Russian murmured appreciatively, his accent heavier than normal.

Illya looked down at Solo, wonder and awe in his face and voice. They were both naked, warm skin, scars and all, touching and relaying closeness. The Sentinel traced scars left behind by knives and guns, by fire, by electricity, by acid. His own body showed no less marks of his life and Napoleon ghosted his fingers over them.

Shouldn’t they go into some kind of raging heat and consume the bond? part of him wondered. Lose all inhibitions and fuck like bunnies? That's what the stories were. That's what Guides were taught and what was written in many, many books. The attraction would be immediate, mostly through touch, then came the sexy rest.

Then again, Napoleon Solo wasn't like those prospective Guides. So why should anything be as everyone knew?

Make no mistake, he wanted this man. Badly. He wanted to have him in bed, wanted to let go. He wanted to see Illya come undone. He wanted everything.

“You are powerful, Cowboy. So much more than anyone knows, gives you credit for. You are not low-level,” Illya rumbled. He sounded like pleased. “Never have been. You’re nothing like those others. You hid so well, even from yourself. No aberration. Not pathetic. Never pathetic.”

Napoleon shivered, hearing those words with the rough edge in Illya's low voice. It sounded almost like adoration. His mind was currently ensconced in the powerful one of the Sentinel, warm and protected, like a precious thing. They were entwined, inseparable from one another, and his own seemed to protect Peril as much as he did shield his Sentinel. He didn't want to let go, didn’t want to leave the bed or the room. He wanted to touch freely, run his hands over warm skin and explore every bump and scar, feel muscles twitch and listen to small hitches of breath.

He hadn’t been overwhelmed.

He hadn’t burned up.

He had withstood the storm.

“Can feel you. Tough. Tenacious. So attractive.” Illya nuzzled against his throat, his voice muffled.

“Smooth talker,” Napoleon answered with a soft laugh.

He carded his fingers into the blond strands, felt the contentment, the absolute pleasure, between them. Illya leaned into the touch, smiling openly. No barriers. Just him.

“This will need some explaining to Waverly. And Gaby.”

“Later.”

“Soon, Peril. Soon. They need to know.”

Illya pushed a knee between his thighs and kissed his partner again. Napoleon groaned into the kiss, arching a little.

Fuck. Yes. This.

The Sentinel gave a pleased rumble, clearly as aroused as Solo, and the slow slide was maddening and pleasurable in one.

Too slow.

Too fast.

Napoleon dug his fingers into the hard muscles, drew Illya closer.

"Peril… I swear…"

It got him a soft chuckle. "Pushy, pushy."

But he sounded too ragged to be in complete control.

And Napoleon didn't want control any more.

Maybe they weren’t going about this like mindless animals, but this was so very much different from anything he had ever experienced with a bed partner. Illya was single-minded attention, was hunger and gentleness in one.

Right now, the hunger was more prominent.

“Mine,” Kuryakin growled and lightly bit at his chin, then trailed more bites down his neck. Napoleon bared his throat with a whine.

Those dry lips were sliding over smooth skin, blunt teeth biting lightly. Napoleon dug his fingers into the hard muscles, held on like this man had become his lifeline, when it was just the same truth for Illya.

“Please,” Illya only said, sounding raw, almost desperate, the last shreds dissipating. “Let me.”

He was asking. For everything. For all Napoleon Solo had to give. For more than he had ever given to anyone, male or female, agency or free agent.

For more than a night. For more than mere physical pleasure.

The next kiss was gentler, but no less possessive.

Illya was his. This pinnacle of human perfection, of killer instinct and ruthless execution, a man who was so cold-blooded and yet so gentle, needing and hungry for Napoleon. This was his. To keep. For the rest of their lives.

He kissed back forcefully, letting the Sentinel know this wasn’t a conquest, and Illya backed off a little, the blue eyes alight with something Napoleon refused to give a name.

“Yes,” Solo just whispered, voice rough and filled with emotions.

Yes to all of it.

To Illya, to the connection, the anchor bond, everything.

“Yes,” Illya echoed, sounding content.

 

 

When he sank into Napoleon, one smooth, hard move, Solo groaned, wanting more. He wanted all of this. He wanted the heat and the fire, the intensity and the possessiveness. He wanted the long, drawn-out encounters and he wanted the rough, hard rides.

He got his wish.

Pushing back, taking it all, his mind reaching for the dark vortex and unleashing that power. Illya left his marks on him that night. On his skin, on his mind, on his soul.

Just like Napoleon left his own.

The darkness roiled through him, powerful and never-ending. It was a killer, it was a void that swallowed everything, had swallowed others. Napoleon couldn’t be touched by it or the endless hunger.

He was Illya’s equal.

He was his greatest liability.

He was his strength.

And his lifeline.

 

tbc...


	7. Chapter 7

Napoleon looked at the man stretched out on the bed in front of him. Calm eyes regarded him with an amazed and also fond expression. Despite being stark naked, Illya Kuryakin felt completely at ease. The man watching him had the opposite effect of making him want to hide or attack; actually, he was drawn to the American like to no one before.

Last night had been an eye-opener. He had discovered emotions within him that he had thought had died a long time ago. He was reluctant to give them a name, almost as if that would jinx it, but he felt them. He shivered at the memory of Napoleon tracing his numerous scars, old and recent, knowing where they had come from.

“Deep thoughts?” he teased his watcher.

Napoleon smiled, all ease and charm. “Appreciative ones.”

A thrill ran through him. He could appreciate Napoleon, too. Had already. In detail.

And he didn't want to ever be without him again. Illya felt the connection, the anchor point, humming with him.

His partner suddenly straddled him and Illya looked up into the bright eyes, the playful expression, the happiness radiating from the so unlikely Guide.

No, he wasn't a Guide.

It was something he needed to get out of his mind.

"Comfortable?" he rumbled as he ran his palms along Napoleon's side, toward the broad back.

He hadn't had such an encounter in too long. And never with a man like Solo. Never with a man who was an agent, trained and lethal, and especially not an American.

“You have no idea.”

Illya felt playful. It was a new feeling, one he wanted to last, wanted to explore. And he wanted to do so much, try more with this man.

"Thank you," the Sentinel murmured, reaching up and tracing random patterns over the muscular arms of his partner. His bonded partner.

The thought alone had him want to shout it at the world.

He was happy.

He couldn't remember being happy since… Yes, since he had been ten.

"For…?"

"Your trust. Trusting yourself… with me."

Napoleon's face shifted from playful to stunned, slightly shocked, then he slowly relaxed again. He leaned down and kissed Illya, nipping at his lower lip, teasing and loving.

"I always trusted you."

"You didn't want this bond," he reminded him. “You feared me. The Sentinel.”

Napoleon exhaled softly and dropped his head against Illya's shoulder, his back bowed. The Russian threaded his fingers into the dark strands, scratching over soft skin.

"You're an Alpha, Peril," he said evenly, voice muffled. "All five senses. You're insanely powerful. That psychic energy inside you is… terrifying. I… I didn't think this… this bonding thing would work. Your mind is self-contained. It doesn't need anyone. You never sought out anyone." He raised his head and met the blue eyes. "You could have erased me. Like you did with the others."

"No," Illya contradicted softly.

"And what if I had given in?" Solo continued as if he hadn't hear the denial. "What if I had opened up and let an Alpha Sentinel connect to me? You would have been saddled with a below-average excuse for a Guide."

Illya tightened his hold on the dark head and pushed Napoleon to meet his eyes. "You are so powerful, Cowboy, you don't even know it. Never did, am I correct?"

"I was tested," Napoleon replied neutrally, face carefully bland.

Illya gave an inelegant snort. "Tests are… tests."

Napoleon raised his eyebrows at the simplistic statement, the old teasing light back.

"Only the Sentinel knows," the blond continued. "I knew. I felt you. So very strange and still familiar. So unlike anyone. My match. Alpha strong, just not anything… normal.” He twitched a smile. “Never normal. Now you’re mine."

Napoleon's lips curved into a warm smile. "Mine," he echoed the sentiment.

Illya flipped them around, hovering over Napoleon, who didn't actually struggle to free himself. The man was a bundle of issues, but so was Kuryakin. Both damaged, both used by their agencies with no regard to their actual status. Napoleon had hidden what he was since he had come online, wrapped in so many shields no one had been able to catch a glimpse.

Illya had.

Because he matched.

A KGB agent and a CIA operative. No one could have predicted that. It had been fate and Illya, who didn't believe in any higher powers, thanked them anyway.

"I'm glad you were tested negative," he told the American. "Very glad. Happy. I met you because you aren't a Guide."

Napoleon's expression softened, so very open. This was the real Napoleon Solo, not one of the roles he played. It was an honor to see him, to be allowed so close to the other man's true self.

"Unconventional. Thief. Liar. Cheat. Gambler," Illya continued, voice low and no more than a rumble. "You would have made a terrible Guide, Cowboy."

Solo gave a soft chuff of a laugh. "I would have been the perfect Guide, Peril. I excel at everything I do."

"Except being a spy."

Illya grinned at the mock scowl, feeling downright adventurous. Napoleon reflected the grin, his own insufferable.

"But you are my anchor. Only that. No more needed. It's all I ever wanted, not knowing that I needed you."

"You, my friend, are a closet romantic," Napoleon quipped, but he kissed him, his shields dropping slowly.

Illya surged forward, physically and across the open connection, enveloping the other man in an embrace. He inhaled his scent, listened to his heartbeat, to his breathing, and ran explorative fingers over the naked skin, every puckered ridge of a scar, every jagged line.

He brushed gentle fingers over the vulnerable throat where Bragg had left his marks in form of bruises. They were gone, invisible to the human eye, but a Sentinel could see the faint traces.

Napoleon swallowed and Illya stilled, then pressed a kiss against where only he could see the marks.

"Won't hurt you, Cowboy," he murmured against the sensitive skin. "Ever."

"I know."

Their lips met in an open kiss, Illya enjoying how Napoleon pushed closer, sliding over his thighs.

They wouldn’t be getting out of bed any time soon.

 

*

 

Exhausted, breathing hard, his whole body reflecting the passion they had shared, he had nothing left. Arms closed around him and Illya, who had never been a cuddler, snuggled into the embrace. Warm eyes regarded him, the depths of the emotions taking his breath away.

Possessive.

Reflecting what the Sentinel felt.

"Who would have thought," Napoleon rumbled and pressed his lips against Illya's head. "Big bad Alpha Sentinel agent – a cuddler."

He made a warning noise.

It got him a soft chuckle. "Who would I tell? Gaby? She wouldn't believe me."

"She would."

Napoleon gave him a quizzical look. "Something I need to know, Peril?"

"What?"

"You? Gaby? Eternal make-believe fiancée and wife?"

The confusion doubled and he sat up, dislodging the arms. "What are you talking about?"

Napoleon laughed, shaking his head in fond exasperation. "Oh, Peril!"

"Gaby and I never slept together!" he protested.

Napoleon cupped his face and placed a pecking kiss on Illya's nose, derailing his thoughts for a second. The man was unpredictable.

"I know," he murmured. "Even if you had, I don't care. I'm just not sharing you any more."

The Sentinel wrapped his fingers around those hands and squeezed them. "I am faithful."

"So am I," was the solemn promise.

"I trust you."

Napoleon swallowed, looking suddenly shy, almost embarrassed.

"The job is the job," Illya said, knowing what this is about. "This isn't the job."

"No, it isn't."

Illya listened to the strong heartbeat, so familiar, so intimate. There was no lie in Napoleon's words. Even without his senses he wouldn't have missed how serious the American was.

Napoleon pulled him back down. "Sleep," he murmured. "Tired."

"Man of many words, Cowboy," he replied, amused.

"You wore me out."

"Hardly."

Napoleon gave him a one-eyed, calculating look. "How often did you bug my room?"

"Enough."

"Kinky, Peril. Very, very kinky."

Illya laughed, feeling light, at ease.

This was his.

All his.

 

* * *

 

Two weeks.

They had two weeks to work out the kinks and smooth out the edges, to let Illya settle himself in this new situation and for Napoleon to understand what had happened.

Two weeks.

It sounded about right.

He might not be able to walk straight, but Napoleon didn’t care. Illya might have to wear turtlenecks wherever he went. Not that Napoleon cared about that either.

 

*

 

Illya learned that Napoleon could cook.

Quite well, actually.

Extremely well.

The man had a taste for the expensive, sure, but he did a mean beef casserole and his lasagna was amazing. No fancy ingredients needed.

He also didn't need much of a kitchen.

 

 

He also got to see the man out of his tailored suits, without perfectly coiffed hair, clean-shaven and absolute smooth in every way. In Rome, even with just pajama pants and the hotel's bathrobe, Napoleon had looked absolutely suave.

Now Illya was allowed to see the man who could wear just a simple pair of jeans pants and a regular t-shirt or shirt. He saw him unshaven, hair in disarray, locks of it hanging into his forehead. His fingers itched to run through those dark strands and usually he gave in, drawing an exasperated eye-roll from his partner.

It was a privilege.

Something curled in his stomach. Warm and longing and intense.

The Sentinel knew that Solo had funds to his avail, not just U.N.C.L.E.'s. Napoleon had squirreled away enough money to live comfortably for the rest of his life, but he needed the thrill. He needed to apply his talent, test his limits, and feel… alive.

Illya knew what that was like.

He had started to feel the same ever since meeting the man.

Just how much Napoleon had on the side was unknown. Maybe even the man himself didn't know.

And he never stopped.

Always the criminal, Illya mused.

He let it slide. It was nothing he would be able to stop, as Napoleon's Sentinel or just a fellow agent. And Waverly didn't bat an eye at the exploits either.

Illya's own money, the little he had earned as a KGB agent, had been frozen and probably reallocated after he had become useless to the agency. He had never had much use for the money, aside from buying clothes and food, since he had always been on assignment, had belonged to his handlers. They had given him what he needed, never what he wanted.

No private pleasures.

It showed in how little he truly called his own. His father's watch. And now… Napoleon Solo. Both were treasured for different reasons.

 

 

Napoleon discovered that Illya wasn't just good at chess, but all kinds of card games. Anything that required rules and concentration, applying himself, his mind, to the game.

And he was pretty good at spotting a cheat.

Which Solo tested.

Repeatedly.

"Sentinel senses," he finally said after another one of his moves had been discovered. "That's cheating!"

Illya raised an eyebrow. "No more than you, Cowboy."

"I do not cheat, Peril."

"You cheat all the time."

"You wound me," he replied with humor dancing in his voice.

"You'll recover."

Napoleon only gave him a smile, enjoying the banter, and dealt anew.

 

 

He didn't manage a single sleight of hand. But he didn't mind. It was training. For him and for his Sentinel.

That Illya could win a game of chess with pieces missing was just more proof of how insanely good the man was. That steel ball of a mind hid a keen intelligence, a tactician and strategist. Of course, Napoleon had noticed it before, especially throughout their first collaboration, taking down the Vinciguerras. Illya just lacked a little refinement, which was where Napoleon always came in.

He dropped the two missing pieces in Illya's hands when the Russian held it out to him, palm up, brows rising with a silent demand.

"You're not human, Peril."

"And you could do better if your mind was on the game."

He smirked. "It's always on the game."

"Then prove it."

"Next time."

There would be many more next times. He was looking forward to them.

 

* * *

 

The sun rose to a bleary, gray morning, the rain still there, though just a drizzle now. It was foggy, the sight into the garden obscured, the other houses shrouded into anonymity.

Napoleon gazed into the quiet morning, for the first time in his life feeling absolutely content. There was a soul-deep quietness to him, so relaxed and easy. There was no rush, no pressure, no need to move. There was nothing but this feeling of being home.

Somewhere in the fog a shadowy thing moved lithely, jumping the wall and hunting for breakfast or just entertainment. The shadow disappeared from sight before Napoleon could really see it. Might have been a cat. He thought he saw something bigger slip bay in the back of the garden, moving through the bushes.

Napoleon watched it, the eyes of a spy scanning for likely danger. Even a safehouse could be compromised.

But it didn't feel like an attack.

His instincts didn't flare, blaring at him to get out of here.

A solid presence seemed to settle next to him, behind him, around him.

“Good morning, hot stuff.”

“Don’t call me that.”

Napoleon gave grinned quirkily.

"Problem?" Illya asked, eyes on the foggy outside.

"Nope. Cat, I think."

The Sentinel seemed to scan, his eyes tracking through the garden, head slightly tilted as he piggy-backed sound to sight. Napoleon watched him, fascinated and intrigued, feeling the intense concentration.

"Nothing," Illya said after a moment. "Animals. No one else."

He nodded.

“I've been thinking." Napoleon raised a quick finger. "No comment about hurting myself, Peril."

"Wouldn't think of it." The words were tinged with amusement. "You were thinking?"

"Yeah. About us. We kinda went about this in reverse,” he said and craned his neck a little to look at his blond partner, who stood behind him without touching.

No touch was needed. He felt Illya, right there, deeply settled in his soul. Napoleon’s shields were still down, trusting in the Sentinel to protect him.

He wouldn’t have done that before; ever. With anyone.

But it also confused him that the Sentinel wasn't more touchy-feely. Those teams he had run into in the past, those working for the CIA or other agencies, were different. The Sentinel would always be all over their Guide and the Guide usually touched, petted or just brushed close by.

Illya… didn't.

Napoleon thought of it as a puzzle that he wanted to solve.

“You think?” Illya rumbled. There was a flash of a smile.

“And I think that we missed a few handbooks along the way.”

“In what way?” the blond asked, a small frown scrunching up his otherwise smooth face.

An open face, so much more on display than before. And he looked so much younger then. It caught Napoleon by surprise every time.

“I’m no expert on this whole Sentinel-bond thing…”

Illya had the gall to snort. Napoleon elbowed him, connecting with hard muscle.

“But I thought Sentinels imprinted on the prospective Guide when they first meet. That would have been in East Berlin, right? Well, okay, we never touched when I rescued Gaby, but later, in that public men's room."

"True."

"So something is triggered, the pair is locked away to bond for a few days, and when they don’t surface the handlers take a peek to see if they haven’t fucked themselves into oblivion.”

“Crude,” the Sentinel rumbled, his mouth just a breath away from Napoleon’s ear. “Truth to a degree, but crude. And yes, usually there is the surface connection at the first encounter, the need to take and imprint, then the bond is established by physical closeness.”

Napoleon turned away from the garden view and gave the other man the raised eyebrow.

“But you are not a Guide, Cowboy,” Illya said, mouth twitching, repeating Napoleon’s angry words from before. “You, my annoying friend, are a Shield. I functioned before we met and never craved control. A Guide was a hindrance. A ball and chain.”

Napoleon looked into the so bright blue eyes, so much more warm than ever before, the ice nothing but a memory and still it was present.

“We didn't feel anything because of it. No surface bond, no imprint, no primal desire."

"I wouldn't say we lack primal desire, Peril…" Napoleon chuckled.

Illya crowded closer. "No lacking there. You aren't lacking, Cowboy. You are what I need."

“The reverse,” he murmured.

It got the American a nod. “You.”

Napoleon smiled before he could stop himself. “Me,” he echoed.

Him. The aberration. The faulty Guide. The reverse Guide.

“And I think we… bonded quite nicely. Without primal impulses. Without intervention.” Illya’s grin was downright dirty. Yes, the man could do dirty.

“Not at it like rabbits.”

The light in the glacially blue eyes was unholy, promising something wicked and powerful. It licked along the edges of Solo’s mind, had him bury his fingers in the thin sweater his partner was wearing.

“Tease,” he breathed.

Who would have figured? There had been a few moments throughout their first mission, between Gaby and him, that had given Napoleon a glimpse at Peril’s depths. That he might just have a softer side.

“Not so much.”

And Illya sank down on his knees, unzipped Solo’s pants and proceeded to prove him wrong.

 

 

Napoleon found out that kitchens were really good places to get laid.

Repeatedly.

Even if they had to clean up a lot afterwards.

Damn, the Sentinel was relentless.

He loved it.

 

 

And he loved this man.

The realization came by the end of the first week. It was nothing shockingly new, but it was still a revelation.

Napoleon was reading the morning paper, feeling pleasantly sore in all the right places and very at ease. Stretched out on the couch, feet up on the low coffee table, he was the picture of a leisurely gentleman. He was perusing the daily news, soaking up the information like a sponge. He might need it later or never at all.

When the thought hit, he lowered the paper and tilted his head, a thoughtful expression crossing his features.

"Huh."

Illya looked up from his game of chess.

"Cowboy?"

“I think I love you.”

The Russian raised his eyebrows, a smile twitching at his lips. “You sound surprised, Cowboy. New revelation?”

“Uh, yes. No. Kinda.”

Napoleon shook his head, running the words through his head again. It didn't feel wrong. Actually, they were absolutely right.

“It’s… new.”

Illya watched him, that mountain of strength and iron control. His expression gave nothing away, though his features were relaxed, young, so far away from the field agent and trained killer.

“It is real.”

Not even a question.

Another thoughtful pause.

The blond met his eyes, serious, so very real in his presence in this room, it derailed Napoleon's thoughts for a moment. Illya had that effect on him. He was… a fact. Solid and absolute. There was no overlooking it… or him. Sure, he was tall and imposing to begin with, but this wasn't about size.

It was the psychic energy that coiled around him, that inner strength that had had him function without the help of a Guide for all his life. Now it felt… free… roaming around, brushing by Napoleon almost playfully, tendrils of black, sharp blades of ice, and still of no danger to him.

Yes, he loved this man.

It was a sensation he hadn't felt all too often before and that was a far cry from infatuation or mere physical attraction.

“I think I love you,” Illya echoed Napoleon’s words, a small smile playing around his lips.

Teasing.

A touch of roguish.

He shouldn't feel so… so warm. So amazed.

But he did.

It was the first time in his life that these words meant something.

“Not just as a Shield?” Solo heard himself ask.

Illya got up and walked over to him, expression so absolutely serious now. He knelt down next to the seated man.

“Never as just my Shield. Never.”

Napoleon drew him into a quick, dirty kiss. He grinned at the expression in the Russian’s face. It was a good expression, one that was very, very human.

“Can we work with this?” he asked.

“We have already. This changes nothing, Cowboy. Nothing at all.”

No, it didn't.

Then again: it changed everything.

They were agents. Personal relationships were discouraged. Anything closer than a temporary partnership was frowned upon.

What Napoleon and Illya had…yes, it would change everything.

 

tbc...


	8. Chapter 8

Alexander Waverly, Commander in Chief of U.N.C.L.E., didn’t look too concerned when both his agents informed him of what had happened in the two weeks both men had been on enforced downtime. Actually, he appeared rather pleased. His eyes flickered over the impeccably dressed agents. Solo in his as usual expensive and expertly tailored suit, a dark gray affair with a matching vest and a blue tie. Kuryakin with a brown leather jacket over a black turtleneck and black pants.

“Well then, gentlemen,” he said, smiling. “I take it you have balanced that connection by now. Enough for me to send you out on another mission.”

Illya nodded briskly. Napoleon gave their commander a narrow-eyed look. Both men had their game faces on.

"Normal procedure would be to send you through psych eval, let someone review your bond, make sure it is stable," Waverly went on, still smiling. "Seeing as Agent Kuryakin is a Sentinel not in need of a Guide and you, Agent Solo, are not a Guide, I believe we can skip that on the list, don't you think?"

At their silence, Waverly made a ticking off motion and nodded.

“You knew,” Napoleon said, almost accusatory while his partner looked on passively, never twitching a muscle.

“Knew what, Agent Solo?”

“About the possibility of a connection!”

Waverly chuckled. “I was quite aware of what Agent Kuryakin is. It’s in his file and you have to be a fool not to notice his Sentinel status, even as a low level Guide. His emotional strength is unsurpassed, testament to his alpha level. Other high level Sentinels have gone into day-long zones, some never coming out of them, some coming out… different… Without a Guide, they are useless."

Illya's expression was steely.

"As for you, Solo, U.N.C.L.E. had suspicions, but none of the Sentinels or the Guides we had cross your paths before we offered you a job could get a clear reading. All we knew was that you had talent and that the talent was Guide-based."

Napoleon blinked, doing a quick mental review of possible candidates. No one came to mind. How many had Waverly sent? He thought something would have pinged on his radar, but it hadn't.

Not that Napoleon was a Sentinel detector.

The head of U.N.C.L.E. looked positively pleased. "I personally watched your interaction with Agent Kuryakin in Italy and was a bit baffled by your reactions to one another. The Sentinel wasn't picking up on anything, but the man was."

Waverly appeared amused.

Illya was a silent statue, eyes cold and distant. His hands still hung loosely at his sides. He wasn't all too happy, but he remained respectful.

"Normally a Sentinel will go into a, let's say… primal mode… when presented with their match. There would have been no stopping him. With you two, nothing of the like. You fell through the Guide roster, but you were something special, Solo. I took a gamble.”

“And it paid off,” Napoleon murmured.

Illya's eyes briefly flicked toward him, the only movement.

“Yes, indeed it did. Now, while other agencies see a bonded Sentinel unfit for certain field operations, I trust that this isn't the case with you two gentlemen."

Illya's eyes narrowed fractionally and Solo tilted his head.

He was aware that some organizations recruited Sentinel-Guide pairs and sent them out into battle situations. Military Sentinels and their Guides were especially trained, especially psychologically. The advantage of that was a strong team with such a singularly tuned psychic bond, both partners completely in tune with each other, no words needed. The downside was should the Guide be killed, the Sentinel flipped. If the Sentinel was killed, the Guide usually became catatonic.

As spies, Sentinels were usually useless when not paired with their Guide, due to zones. A flash of light in the dark, an explosion, overstimulation of any kind of sense, and they might be gone. Without their Guides, bringing a Sentinel out of a zone was almost impossible.

Of course, being able to dial down all his senses made a Sentinel unbreakable in torture situations. And of course, since that was known, it made the Guide the better target.

"Because Peril here is already self-contained," Napoleon said, like a light bulb had gone off in his head. "He worked just fine without me before."

"Exactly."

"And you hope that hasn't changed."

Waverly's smile was suddenly rather calculating, had Illya hum with more tension and Napoleon be on his toes.

"I know it hasn't. The whole… bonding process hasn't worked along predicted lines, Solo. At all. Nothing about your bond is normal. I expected that when we realized that whatever you are, is not a true Guide. I didn’t expect a Shield-bond, though.”

Illya frowned. “You know about Shields?” he asked, sounding a little surprised.

“As much as there is to know. They are quite rare nowadays. Guides are groomed and trained. Those who don’t test positive are discarded. Those could be something else, but they aren’t given the right training or incentive.” Waverly folded his hands, looking at the two agents. “I was lucky. As were you, Agent Kuryakin.”

Napoleon felt a wave of affection along the empathic link and almost smiled. Illya’s expression hadn’t changed, but that was just the outside. Between them the connection pulsed strongly.

Mine, he heard. Mine.

All of this. Forever.

"This might complicate matters," Napoleon hedged slowly.

Their boss looked unconcerned. "Because you are an American Guide who bonded to a Russian Sentinel? Because your respective countries are at odds with one another?"

Napoleon gave a one-sided shrug. "That might figure into the equation."

"Agent Solo, killing a Sentinel operative of any agency, whatever nationality, political affiliation or questionable allegiance is severely frowned upon. Down to creating international conflicts any country would want to avoid." He raised a hand to forestall the argument. "Agent Bragg was the exception and his death was inevitable since he threatened your partner. A feral Sentinel is outside those regulations. It would be preferable for such an individual, especially a government operative, whatever his country of origin, to be brought in for treatment and help, but Mr. Bragg was too far gone."

"Could be made to look like an accident," Illya contested, voice low and dangerous. He was radiating so much tension, Napoleon was afraid he might snap.

Still, he didn't pick up any warning signs. No tics. Just tension.

"You'd be surprised how much Russia wouldn't want anyone to point fingers or spread rumors that their top operative, an alpha Sentinel, died shortly after being bonded to an American, who didn't even register as a potential Guide candidate."

Waverly looked serious, all humor gone from is eyes, and he leaned forward a little.

"Gentlemen, what happened might have been unexpected to most, but U.N.C.L.E. is very happy with the outcome. While the CIA isn't happy about Mr. Solo's sudden outing as a Guide and the KGB is fuming that their A-level Sentinel is now bound to the aforementioned American, your countries have no interest in a conflict created by kidnapping or killing either of you."

"Peril here has a point, though. If we get ambushed in the field, get shot at, who knows whose side it was?"

Waverly smiled coolly. "In the end we will know. Rest assured. You're not the only international team and while Russia and the US don't see eye to eye, there are more complicated political situations among other nations. Anything that so much as smells like an ordered hit will have severe repercussions. Well now," he clapped his hands, “You’re expected in Salzburg in three days. Miss Teller is already there and will brief you on your mission. Prelims have been delivered to your office. Good luck.”

They left, walking side by side like they had always done, radiating no more or no less closeness than ever.

 

 

When they were packing their things, Illya used the opportunity to push his Shield against the wall and kiss him senseless. It was something new, something unexpected, something Illya had never dared to do before.

Napoleon wasn’t really fighting it. Actually, he was completely into it.

He liked seeing, feeling, Illya be human. Just be Illya. Not the agent, not anything else but the warmth he had felt before. This wasn't something drilled into him, indoctrinated by the KGB and the system. This wasn't the by-the-book response.

This was the human being underneath all of it.

Spontaneous.

“This going to be a thing now, Peril? Pushing me into walls, taking advantage of your not-Guide?”

The Sentinel tilted his head a little, studying him closely, with a curl of a smile around his lips.

“Am I taking advantage?” he rumbled.

“One might think so.”

“One?”

Illya’s hands on his hips were distracting. The Sentinel was pushing gently against his barriers, almost shyly, and Napoleon dropped them voluntarily. It was so amazing to feel that man, to experience that tight coil of barely controlled energy, and to touch the inky darkness that was part and parcel of him.

It was addictive.

“You’re bad for me,” he murmured.

“I think I am the best that ever happened to you, Cowboy.”

“And so full of yourself, Peril.”

Illya chuckled as he kissed him; hard, needy, loving, thankful. Napoleon wrapped his arms around, his mind seeking the same nearness.

Illya’s warmth was everywhere, reflecting those emotions, strong and unwavering.

He had come a long way in his abilities in a very short time.

Because of this man. His very own Red Peril.

“You make me want to do things," Napoleon murmured against the chapped lips.

“Bad things?" Illya teased, and it was so incredible to have this man be playful and at ease when he was normally so focused and intense.

My work, Napoleon thought proudly. Mine alone.

In the privacy of a hotel room that had been thoroughly cleaned of bugs. In a safehouse secured against enemy intrusion. In the middle of nowhere, alone in a car – which Napoleon insisted on picking nine times out of ten. That was when he got to see Peril. His Sentinel. No masks. And he repaid the gift, lowering all his own.

“Very bad. Ready to save the world?” he asked cheerfully.

Illya’s response was through the bond, surging through him. It was a promise for later. “Ready,” he said.

In a way it was a lie. For both of them.

 

* * *

 

Vienna went swimmingly.

Well, mostly.

In a way.

Illya and Gaby begged to differ.

Gaby was nursing a bruised head and sprained ankle, already on the next train to Zurich. Illya had found his physical match in two brutish guards that had left him with bruised ribs, several cuts and contusions, and his mood was abysmal. Napoleon had to hide rope burn around his wrists with his custom tailored shirts and was still trying to shake off the drug used to knock him out and later get him to talk. It hadn't been a truth serum per se. It had been some experimental shit that had left him nauseous, like after a rough boat ride, and his captors had cursed him for vomiting all over their shoes.

He counted it as a win.

It hadn’t messed with his shields since his mind worked differently, but it had messed with Illya.

The man was a menace on a good day.

Right now he was a nightmare.

No, he hadn't lost it. No, he hadn't maimed anymore any more than he usually would. He hadn't gone over the edge, all caveman and threatening anyone who came to close to Napoleon.

No to all of that.

He hovered.

Illya Kuryakin, the strong, silent, handsome type, lethal with his bare hands, and usually the most stoic person Napoleon had ever met, hovered.

It was ridiculous.

And he tried to be non-chalant about it.

It didn’t work. Of course not.

“You're giving me a headache, Peril," he told the taller man.

A look of guilt flickered briefly over those handsome features.

Napoleon groaned silently. Who would have figured that the blond could do guilt so well?

“Peril… Illya!"

The Sentinel’s head snapped around, a brief, wounded expression slipping away, hidden behind iron walls.

“Come here."

A stubborn lined formed between the dark blond brows.

“Please?"

Yep, that worked because Illya was suddenly right there. Napoleon wrapped a gentle grip around one wrist and his headache eased a little. Illya’s features smoothed out. He looked almost content for a moment, then the frown blew back full force and those glacial eyes narrowed.

“How."

He had a knack for turning a question into a statement.

“Don’t ask me. I’m no Guide, remember?"

The scowl looked fierce now.

Napoleon really had no idea. Guides touched to focus their Sentinel, to give him comfort. He was winging it most of the time, mostly because they didn't touch, didn't need that, and Illya never asked for it.

Right now, that moment, it had been instinct.

Napoleon cocked his head a little. “I figure you never needed touch at all? Since you don’t zone…“

“No one touched me."

Not to throw off an outbreak of rage, not to calm the storm. Illya’s handlers had used the psychotic episodes to their advantage with no regard to his mental health. Illya Kuryakin was a sledgehammer, a tool, had never been more to his masters. He was a Sentinel, but he had never been treated as one because he lacked the ability to bond to a Guide.

Napoleon remembered Rome, the theft of Illya's watch, and how Gaby had held the much taller, stronger man back. She had been and never would be a match for him, but he hadn't pushed her aside to follow the thieves.

The touch hadn't been that of a Guide, but it had been human contact. With Illya having a soft spot for their protégé already, it had worked. For a moment. Enough for him to be back in control.

He had stayed in his role, with a momentary lapse, and he had let his most valuable possession be taken.

The KGB had trained him well to focus when an outbreak had to wait, but Napoleon was sure they had never taught him how to release all that anger in a controlled way.

“But you had Guides," he remarked. "Sometimes."

Illya grimaced. “Wrong touch."

“Bad touch?" Napoleon quipped.

Another grimace. “They were pushy. KGB. It felt… wrong."

Again he wondered how the man had made it to this point without going feral. Not because he had no Guide, but because he decompressed wrong. He had battled rage with violence and violence with anger.

Now he had a Shield.

Napoleon smiled all of a sudden.

“You think I’m not pushy? Then you don’t know me at all. I go for what I want. You, I want. And you want me to touch you."

Illya’s expression darkened.

“Cowboy…“

It was a warning. Clear and unmistakable.

“Your brain is wired wrong," Napoleon mused. "I'm missing some stuff that makes a real Guide."

"You are real."

"Yeah, just not normal." He flashed another smirk and squeezed the wrist, stepping closer, right into Illya’s personal space. Where he belonged.

“I do not depend on physical comfort," the Sentinel growled.

Wrong. So wrong. Napoleon decided not to say it out loud. Instead he played along.

“Neither do I. But this helps. Doesn’t hinder, only helps, right? And you’re a closet worry wart, Peril." Solo smirked. "You worried about me. I'm touched. So I'm touching."

The glare would have sent anyone else running. Napoleon just wanted to kiss the guy senseless. His headache was better, though the physical proximity didn’t magically heal all pains. And Illya looked more relaxed than ever.

“I think this is what I’m for you," the American agent said softly, dropping his mask of cheerful ease.

He took a gamble and pressed his free hand against the broad chest, feeling warmth. Illya’s eyes widened marginally. The blue was still like a glacier, too bright, too silvery, but the dark, vicious thing inside him was at peace. He looked more human than ever.

"Ask if you need me, Peril. I might not be the Zen kind of Guide most Sentinels look for, but I can be useful."

“No," Illya was contradicted, that deep, dark rumble reaching Napoleon’s very core. “You are not a tool, Cowboy. You are my Shield. My partner."

And Illya was protection and comfort, an anchor, for Napoleon in turn. To decompress. To let go, not look over his shoulder as he healed, and to trust someone completely with his physical and mental health.

"Partner," Napoleon agreed.

The physical closeness, not related to a roll on the hay or a quick blowjob against the wall, was easing tension, turned him mellow. He could see it in Illya's eyes, the softness, feel it in the languid caress of a hand over his side.

“We okay?" Napoleon asked, meeting the blue eyes.

Underneath the softness was still the roiling darkness in there rise, the fury at those who had hurt him, had hurt Gaby, and who had taken on a Sentinel. It was contained, could be handled.

“Yes."

The kiss was weirdly unexpected, since it was Illya initiating it. The man was always such a control freak. So it was a nice surprise and Napoleon took advantage of it.

“You drive me crazy!” Illya growled when they parted.

An innocent smile was the answer. Warm hands slid under the hem of his shirt.

“Really?”

The Russian grabbed his hands, a light grip around his wrists. "Every single day."

"I aim to please."

"When they took you…" He stopped.

Napoleon met the glacial gaze, saw the anger and pain rise anew, and he simply nodded, face open. Unshielded.

Illya's fingers trailed over one temple, then he seemed to collect himself, control firmly reasserted.

They were good.

He was good.

Napoleon smiled. "I know," he only said. "C'mon. Time to leave. We have a plane to catch."

They were still professionals, still agents.

 

tbc...


	9. Chapter 9

Illya had had ample time to get to know Napoleon Solo before he had realized who the man truly was, what hid underneath shields he hadn't even been aware of at the time. Now that the American was out, so to speak, it became a whole new ballgame.

An interesting one.

This was the CIA's most efficient agent. He hadn't just been a successful criminal, a master of evasion, who had been blackmailed into the Agency's services. He had received extensive training in the Army and later with the CIA, could defend himself, was an extremely good shot, and he was physically fit.

He matched Illya in many ways, except close combat. The Sentinel had overpowered Napoleon that first time in Berlin, though Solo had put up a very good fight. He knew dirty moves, but close quarters fighting was something he lacked a training. Their encounter had been fast and hard, Kuryakin throwing his American counterpart around and destroying the stalls, and Napoleon had had no real defense. Illya could have strangled him all that time ago, broken his neck, had had him in a complete lock-down. Napoleon had had no way to get out.

"You want what?" Napoleon asked, raising dark eyebrows. It was such an elegant move and something Illya would never be able to copy.

That was what made them such a successful team: their different qualities. Napoleon was the undercover agent, the man to break into places and leave without ever being noticed. He was cunning, his plans were solid, and even now, months later, Illya still admired how sleek and smooth the escape of Gaby Teller had been planned. Back then he had already been impressed by the American agent, without really knowing who he was.

Illya was the battering ram, the muscle and power, the assassin, the sniper. Napoleon wasn't a trained or born killer; he was the gentleman, though he would take out a target if he had to. He was a very good sniper and knew his way around any kind of gun on the market, and even those not issued officially.

Unlike Illya, though, he had never been used as an assassin.

The Russian had no problem with a kill.

Then again, subtlety and undercover assignments had never been his forte, and he had never been given many. He didn't blend in, didn't play parts very well.

See Rome.

Being the fiancée architect hadn't really been something that had worked for him. He had nearly blown his cover. Napoleon's poking, prodding and teasing remarks hadn't helped either.

Now his partner was looking at him like Illya had lost the last of his marbles.

"Sparring," he repeated what he had told the other man before.

"Sparring," came the echo. "You and me?" Eyebrows winged up in a slightly suggestive leer. "We did that last night."

Illya scowled. "Close combat," he reiterated. "I want you to take me out."

"Uh-huh. No."

The scowl deepened, became a little less friendly. "Yes."

"What part of 'no' is so hard to understand? I'm not going to spar with you, Peril. I know how to fight!"

"Then show me."

It got him an eye-roll. "Why?"

"Why not?"

Exasperating Napoleon had become a new game for him. It wasn't easy, but he knew where to push by now.

"For one: you'll win. I know I'm not a match for all that muscle and weight."

"I am not fat."

"Nope. Didn't say that." And there was the smirk. Blue eyes lit up with a teasing light. "Not even an ounce too much, I give you that. I like all that muscle, too."

Illya refused to be baited. He crossed his arms in front of his chest.

"But you're a sledgehammer, Peril. I've had the displeasure of wrestling with you before. Let me tell you, it's not fun."

"It's not supposed to be fun."

"Unless done in bed. Or the couch. Or the many other places we wrestled before."

He loomed over the other man, their height difference to his advantage. Solo wasn't a small man, but Illya was simply tall.

"Not all opponents can be talked down with words. You will run into hired help that is like a bull-fighter. They won't use words."

"Neither will I. But I'm not going to train that by going up against you." There was a stubborn line forming on Napoleon's forehead.

"You will. And I will beat you."

"Spoilsport. I was hoping for a happy end," the American quipped.

Illya did a quick, mental calculation, then decided that turning the house upside down was an acceptable outcome.

He attacked.

Napoleon had a split second of warning, which was close to none at all, then Illya was upon him.

 

 

There had only ever been one serious altercation between them and that had been in Berlin.

Ages… lifetimes ago.

Napoleon still recalled that brawl; one he had lost. If it had been completely serious, life and death, he would be dead today. Illya was insanely strong, his technique perfected by endless, hard training, and the way he had taken Solo down, wrapped him in a headlock and immobilized him with his legs, had been both humiliating and probably the most astounding display of strength and fighting style Solo had ever seen.

He hadn't even gotten a blow in back then. Kuryakin had been relentless, had thrown him around, and after just a few minutes he had been immobilized.

Yes, it had been extremely humiliating.

Especially in front of Sanders, who hadn't seemed too surprised.

Now that strength was again turned against him and Napoleon had to employ all his cunning and speed to get away from those large hands.

 

 

The house started to look like a battlefield as Napoleon used whatever he could find as a weapon against his opponent, who did the same. Illya was insanely creative in fighting with what was at hand. He didn't need a knife or a gun when there was furniture or decoration to be used.

But Napoleon was no slacker.

You didn't get to be the CIA's top agent with just wit and luck, though that was part of his package.

When Illya pinned him a second time, flat on his stomach, sitting on the small of his back with all his considerable weight, Napoleon gave a groan, which was more of a wheeze.

"Sloppy, Cowboy," the Russian rumbled into his ear. "You don't think ahead."

And then the weight was gone and the next round was started, without giving Napoleon time to take a breather.

He got in a few good blows, but it was more like a love-tap.

When Illya did that scissoring move with his legs and Napoleon was in the familiar headlock, he gasped out a curse, slapping at the arm.

"We will repeat his until you can get out."

And the restraining arm was gone. Napoleon just leaned against the wall, breathing hard, feeling like he had gone ten rounds against a bulldozer.

"Where did you learn that?" he finally gasped.

"Special Forces. KGB. Some places I can't name." Illya slid down the wall to sit next to his partner, a contemplative glint in his eyes. "You are good, though, Cowboy."

"Good at getting beaten up by tall, blond Russians?"

It got him a tiny smile.

He had yet to really make an impression in this fight, despite the fact that he had held his own against the Russian Sentinel. Exceptionally well, compared to earlier encounters in a less than friendly way.

"The military trained you. CIA, too."

"Not KGB, right?"

Illya chuckled. "No."

"And I know you have some serious accreditations. Know your file, Peril."

"As I do yours."

He rose smoothly to his feet and held out a hand.

"Again."

Napoleon groaned.

Five minutes later hands were curled around his wrists, keeping them firmly next to his head. Napoleon tried to move, dislodge the hard grip, but it only resulted in two strong thighs putting pressure on his hips and lower ribcage.

“I know you can do better, Cowboy."

And damn, the man wasn't even sweating.

“Really?” he panted, trying again.

He was caught tightly.

“You’re flexible and agile. You can move. You were taught to fight."

"They don't have anyone like you in that training, Peril. You're not human," he grumbled.

Illya gave him an unimpressed look. "Americans."

“Let me up?”

“You want to have another go?”

“Yeah. Third time’s the charm.”

Illya cocked his head. "I think we are past the third time."

Napoleon glared at him, though it probably looked more like an angry pout.

Kuryakin lithely and gracefully moved off him, stepping back. It should be illegal to move so fluidly.

Napoleon scrambled to his feet and shook out his arms. He was under no illusion that he could defeat Illya, but he attacked again, managing to get in two blows before he found himself on the ground once more, his Sentinel leaning over him, smiling.

“You left your right side open,” he told the downed man. “Again. Concentrate.”

Solo sighed. He had. He did. Really. Concentrating was no problem. It was more the fact that despite his size, Illya was a lot faster than him. Relentless. Inhumanly so. The man didn't tire!

He remembered East Berlin, their chase, Illya running after the car. He had been fast, single-minded, barely out of breath when he had nearly had Solo on that roof. Not even a little pant.

But Napoleon tried again.

He got further this time, managing to swipe Illya's legs out from under him, but the Sentinel’s legs scissored toward him and Napoleon landed on his back. Illya was on top of him once more.

The blond was breathing only a little harder now.

Both men gazed at each other, Illya sitting dominantly on his partner, his weight keeping him firmly down. The pants couldn’t hide the growing evidence of the effect the training session had on either of the two.

They gazed at each other, silent.

“Peril? Want to let me up?”

“No.”

“Kinky.”

Illya leaned down and kissed him, relaying his arousal and want and desire.

"Is that what they train you in the KGB?" Napoleon murmured when they parted.

Illya didn't answer, just kissed him again.

His wrists were freed and Napoleon carded his fingers into the short hair, ran them over the warm skin.

The Sentinel lifted his head and regarded him closely, examining his face, running an expert eye over the bruises on his hands and knuckles. He hadn't applied more force than necessary and had been especially careful not to damage Napoleon's face.

"You have a different style," he murmured.

"American capitalist style?"

"Maybe. But you can learn."

"Because you can teach?"

"Would you want me to?"

Napoleon smiled and wrapped a hand around the strong neck, pulling his Sentinel closer. "You're a good teacher, Peril." And then he pressed a soft kiss against Illya's lips. "How about we take the fighting to another level?"

"One track mind."

"Hm, you started it."

"This is not part of the training schedule."

"Maybe we should change the schedule."

Napoleon knew he was making a very convincing argument, because he felt the very physical response.

"Do you win all your fights like that, Cowboy?"

"What do you think?" was the cocky answer.

"Do whatever is necessary to win," Illya said in a low, very seductive sounding voice.

"Exactly."

"I can work with that."

"Knew you were flexible."

"One-track mind."

"I can feel you right on that track with me, Peril," he murmured, pushing his hips up again.

Illya lowered himself further down, elbows resting left and right of Napoleon's head.

The kiss was hot, dirty and hitting all the right buttons. Napoleon felt his brain misfire a little. His hands clenched into Illya's sweater.

"Like your style," he whispered breathlessly.

"Loving yours, Cowboy. I think."

He grinned and he knew it was probably sappy.

He didn't care.

Illya lightly bit at his jaw. "I want you," he rumbled. He raised his head, blue eyes intense, deep, relaying something Napoleon had not seen before. "In me."

It didn't need a Sentinel to hear Napoleon's breath hitch, and he knew he was staring at his partner. Then a slow, slow smile crept over his lips.

"Peril… all you have to do is ask," he replied.

"I am. Asking."

He pulled him down into a quick, dirty kiss. "I'm an equal opportunities man," he whispered. "You could have told me sooner. I'm very flexible."

He twitched his eyebrows into a suggestive leer.

"You are a spy, Cowboy. I figured you would find out on your own. But you are still terrible."

Napoleon laughed, fingers trailing over the blond hair, the warm skin of Illya's open, amused face.

"Maybe we should find a better place?" he suggested.

The floor was kind of hard and while he wouldn't say no, he had a bed in mind.

His Sentinel got up, fluid, with coiled strength showing in every move. Napoleon made a mental note to get more material on Sentinels and their detrimental influence on one's mental health. How could one man arouse him so badly? He was way past that teenage puberty stage.

With Illya… not so much.

On the job they were professionals, kept their hands to themselves, never gave an outward sign of their personal relationship. Touch was close to nonexistent.

But outside the job all bets were off.

The blond held out a hand and pulled Napoleon up.

"Let's see what you can teach me, Cowboy."

To hell with his brain, Napoleon thought then and there as his brain cells decided to die in the explosion of desire that had just bloomed. How could he want this man any more than he already did?

 

 

It turned out that he could. Want him more. Need him more.

It turned out that Illya Kuryakin was a good student.

Napoleon knew his barriers were down, his whole self open to his Sentinel, and he didn't care. The sensation of Illya around him, Napoleon seated deep inside, drew a stuttering groan from him.

It was over too quickly.

And still it had been achingly long and drawn out.

Napoleon was breathless, trembling from the dual sensations of the anchor line's resonance and the very physical reaction.

"We should do this more often," he breathed.

Illya gave a grunt of agreement, large hands petting Napoleon's hair in a rather uncoordinated manner.

 

 

Illya watched as the other man dropped off into sleep. The Sentinel felt tired, too, but for now he just wanted to watch. He kissed the dark head, enjoying the closeness, the still present tingle of their rather hot sexual encounter.

It had been everything he had wanted, had thought about for so long, and he had finally decided to ask. He knew it was expected of the Sentinel to be the dominant partner, to take, to top.

But Napoleon Solo wasn't anything but a regular Guide. No Guide anyway. He was his Shield and his equal. He was a passionate man, as much an alpha as Illya was, though in a different way.

He brushed back a strand of hair, smiling as the lock bounced rebelliously back. Napoleon gave a sleepy mumble, but Illya kept up the gentle caress. He loved the feel of that dark hair, without product, just the natural waves. He loved the feel of the hard form of his partner next to him.

He loved feeling.

Being open.

Showing affection without fear of it being used against him by the very person he gave it to.

Illya was no normal Sentinel and he never would be. Nothing had changed in his abilities, which had been top level to begin with. Nothing had changed in the way he could work with them, without a zone, without a Guide constantly at his side, talking or touching.

But now there was more.

So much more.

He could finally let go. Like he had now. He had wanted to feel Napoleon inside him, wanted it so badly, it had been too much to keep to himself.

The man at his side sighed, then curled closer. The hair fell back over his forehead and Illya smiled more.

Happily.

At home.

 

tbc...


	10. Chapter 10

It was inevitable that they would run into AJ Sanders again. Napoleon had expected it to happen one day, though that day would be too soon whenever it was.

It happened to be six weeks after becoming the Shield to Illya’s Sentinel.

His former superior looked like he had just bitten into a lemon when he caught sight of Solo walking into the CIA offices like he belonged here, like he was in charge. Light gray suit, latest off the racks of an exclusive Italian store, a charcoal tie, and polished black shoes made him appear suave and like he owned the place. The smile on his face was knowing, challenging, downright insubordinate.

Looks followed him. He knew every single agent by name, their background, their best and worst abilities. It was a knack to memorize files. It was also something that had helped him survive in the past.

Napoleon didn't look at any of them directly, but he was aware of their eyes on him. Some whispered to each other, nodding at the unlikely pair of U.N.C.L.E. agents in their midst. He could very well imagine what they were talking about.

Illya Kuryakin was hard to miss. That he was a Sentinel was probably known to many. And rumors that Solo had connected to him were most likely flying wildly.

Illya was half a step behind him, face closed off. Though Napoleon teased him about apparently owning only one set of wardrobe – black turtleneck, brown leather jacket, dark pants – it was what Kuryakin had donned again.

No matter what he wore, he looked imposing. Today more than on any other day, except maybe a mission where he tried to intimidate. Or chasing after innocent CIA agents who were just trying to do their jobs.

Napoleon could tell how tense the former KGB operative was without actually looking. The anchor line was alive with tremors. Illya was in the lion's den, so to speak. Even though they were U.N.C.L.E. agents, not an enemy organization or agency, and their credentials opened doors.

But still, this was a place he had been happy to turn his back on. Ten years of service, being the most efficient agent in their history, but there had been no closer relationships. No friendships. No personal ties.

Officially he was still one of theirs, just on loan, but Napoleon liked to push that away, put it into a drawer and forget about the possibility that he might one day end up in Sander's hands once more.

Through the anchor he felt nothing but smooth control and absolute focus.

“Solo,” Sanders greeted him and he managed to make it sound like the most despicable thing had crawled into his mouth and died there, leaving a bad aftertaste.

“Sanders,” Napoleon replied cheerfully.

“I should have known they’d send you. And… him.” He eyed Illya with even greater distaste. "I finally get to meet the man you claimed was inhuman as he chased you down?"

Illya's expression didn't so much as twitch. His eyes simply bore into Napoleon's former boss.

"I can see where you think he might be anything but human," Sanders went on, lips twisting into a provocative smile. "Alpha Sentinel, I heard."

The bond fluctuated. Napoleon listened up, though on the outside he remained completely at ease, like nothing could touch him.

“I’m so happy to see you, too, Sanders.”

“You always were a smart mouth, Solo. No idea what that Brit sees in you. You’re an international disaster waiting to happen. I thought he only wanted to borrow you for that one heist, but it seems you made an impression." Sanders almost sneered. "Well, for now you are his disaster.”

"I'll give Commander Waverly your regards."

"You still owe me time, Solo. I'll collect that when U.N.C.L.E. is through with you. That will be soon enough. You're still mine. Whatever lies you fed them, Solo. You're not a Guide."

"I never said I was," he said pleasantly.

Sanders' smile was cold. "Once a con, always a con."

Something pinged off Napoleon’s shields and he gave Illya a hard poke along the anchor line, heeding off a potential inter-agency disaster in the making.

His Sentinel wasn't a possessive bastard, but Sanders was bad enough when he wasn't trying to provoke a reaction. Right now he was clearly gunning for one and wasn't easing up. Napoleon could see it in the glint of his eyes.

He put on an impassive face.

Time to get out of here.

“I’d love to stay and chat, go over my resume for U.N.C.L.E., have tea and cookies, but we’re here on business.”

Sanders looked at him for a long minute, then gestured at him to follow him to the office.

“You still owe me four years, Solo,” he said as he went to his desk and unlocked a drawer.

“Talk to U.N.C.L.E. if the ransom payments were not enough,” Napoleon told him lightly, trademark smile in place.

Sanders snorted. “They won’t keep you. You’ll belly up some day and then you’ll be back here, Solo. You’re useful to them now, but Waverly doesn’t know you as I do. Your service record is nothing but smoke and mirrors.”

This time the pinging was harder, almost like an assault on the anchor. He felt the light presence in the back of his mind strengthen, like a rubber band stretching to its limit and about to snap. It was pulling at him, trying to get loose, and he knew what it meant. Peril was using him to keep his balance and if Napoleon let go, the Sentinel would do something very stupid.

Napoleon was very tempted to grab a physical hold of Illya, but he didn’t. That was quite unprofessional to start with. He didn’t have to look to know that Illya was staring icy daggers at Sanders, killing him in very creative ways in his mind.

Sanders tossed a small object at him and Napoleon caught it deftly. He had no idea what it was, but a CIA operative had retrieved it from the smoldering wreckage of a once expensive car, a Ferrari to be precise. It was connected to a case they had been working on and Waverly had asked his team to pick it up on their way home.

"I'll see you again, Solo. Behind bars when Waverly is done with you. Or in a pine box.” The smile was rather ugly.

Napoleon felt the intent to maim. Not his own. This was a lot more primal and it was lashing toward the older man, wanting a taste of his blood. He knew if he stepped back and let it happen, it would. With all the nasty complications and paperwork that would follow.

Napoleon hated paperwork.

He beamed at his old boss.

"Wonderful seeing you again, too, Sanders. Say hello to the team for me." Solo gave him a sloppy salute.

Illya followed him out the office like a hired bodyguard. He was radiating imminent death to all who so much as looked at them.

"Calm down, Peril," Napoleon said under his breath. "Or you're going to break something."

Illya's expression grew even colder, eyes shooting daggers. Some of the men and women in the corridors shot him nervous looks. One agent actually made an aborted move for his weapon.

Oh, this was so not good.

"Like your face," Napoleon added softly, under his breath, lips still displaying that infuriating smile. "This looks painful."

It was a rather insincere smile, a simple cover, but the moment he dropped it, he knew things would go really sideways. His Sentinel was on high alert, ready to snap a neck at the drop of a pin. Illya was too close, heading for that red haze of rage, and all because Sanders was a prick.

"Not worth it," Napoleon muttered. "You hear me?"

He pushed the same over the bond, saw Illya's eyes flicker a little, a misgiving frown furrowing between his brows.

Napoleon caught sight of a Sentinel-Guide pair he had only ever IDed in passing – Howard Lowes, two senses, sight and sound, which was a rather common combination, with a low-level empath Guide, Frank Tacoma; the Sentinel a former cop, the Guide a former medical student -- and the Guide looked pale as a sheet. Lowes was tensing up, lips thinning, and his fingers crept toward his weapon.

Yep. Going up in flames in three… two… one…

They finally passed the front doors and stepped out onto the streets. Solo released a breath he hadn’t been aware of holding.

Illya was thrumming with energy, but there was no twitch that warned of an imminent explosion that would leave people bleeding and furniture in pieces. He simply resembled a granite block of hostility, of Death out for anyone who came too close, who said the wrong word.

They had to get some more distance between the Washington CIA headquarters and themselves. Diffusing the bomb that was his Sentinel didn't need watchers.

And Napoleon was under no illusion that they would be watched every step of the way.

"Now that that is behind us… how about coffee?" he asked brightly, using the often before proven method of distraction out maybe jar the other man out of his murderous thoughts.

"We have a delivery to make."

Ouch. That sounded painful. Like chewing broken glass.

"Caffeine helps me concentrate."

Illya just maneuvered him toward the car waiting where they had left it at the curb. He didn't touch Napoleon, his very loud psychic presence already enough to make the other man move.

"Spoilsport."

Napoleon got behind the wheel, but he didn't start the engine. He turned and looked at Illya.

“Peril?”

The blank face should be frightening. The burning eyes should be terrifying. Actually, he should give this man a wide berth, but Napoleon wouldn’t. Ever.

"Forget Sanders, okay? He's an asshole."

"I know your file," the blond stated coldly. "I know you were a criminal, blackmailed into the service of the CIA. I know how much you stole and how little was ever recovered. You hoarded it somewhere, made money out of your exploits. And I know your service record from the Army, and from the CIA. You are an excellent agent."

"That's classified," Solo remarked lightly.

"His words dishonor you."

"Like I said, he's a dick. He just lost his prized possession. Me."

"You are not a possession!"

He tilted his head.

"He had no right to treat you like he did."

"Are we talking about today or… before? Because let me tell you, he was actually having a good day. You got it right the first time, y'know. Small man, holding my very long leash?"

Illya glowered.

"But he lost that leash." Napoleon leaned forward. "Don't tell me your boss is all hearts and puppies, Peril, because I met the man."

The glower deepened. Illya's clenched his hands into fists. Napoleon still didn't touch, just kept a very close eye on the anchor. The eddies coming from there were still within normal range, just a few spikes out of the norm and peaking.

"Peril, his words are nothing but hot air. He's just pissed off that he can't use me any longer. He lost his best man." Napoleon raised his eyebrows.

"U.N.C.L.E.'s gain. And mine."

The possessive note shouldn't be so sexy, but it was. Damn!

Napoleon forcefully turned away and inhaled deeply. "Now I need a coffee! Don't argue!"

Illya twitched what went as a smile for him, the anchor line relaxing minutely. It was still not back to normal and Napoleon would need to do something later, but right now he wanted a coffee.

"Delivery first,” the Sentinel stated.

"You are relentless," he sighed. "Okay, delivery first. Then coffee."

 

 

The car pulled away from the curb and flowed into the traffic.

The moment they were moving, Napoleon reached over and touched his Sentinel, feeling the bond smooth a little more. He squeezed the wrist.

"Okay?" he murmured, eyes still on the road.

Illya exhaled slowly. "Thank you."

Getting the hang of this not-Guide thing, Napoleon thought. Illya might not need touch to focus or pull him out of a fugue state, but touch worked nevertheless.

Like now.

Sure, the situation was already diffusing, but the physical sensation helped to put a lid on things.

For now.

 

 

They dropped off the package at an U.N.C.L.E. lab not far away. It was a simple hand-off and they were in and out within an hour.

They also made sure that they weren’t followed as they headed toward their coffee break.

Of course, they were.

“CIA,” Illya remarked with a disdainful voice.

“Rookies,” was Napoleon’s agreement with a slow sigh and a shake of his head as he stirred his cup.

He flashed the two men a bright smile. One looked a little flustered, then folded up the newspaper he had pretended to read, and left. The other slipped into the crowds outside.

“I’m better,” Napoleon only said.

“Marginally.”

“You wound me, Peril. Undercover is my speciality. Anyway, you stand out like a sore thumb when shadowing someone. I saw you at Checkpoint Charlie.”

Illya smirked. “I wanted you to see me.”

“That’s what they always say after discovery.”

The blond raised an eyebrow and Napoleon shot him a challenging look. The fond expression in those ice blue eyes threw him a little, like always, and he firmly concentrated on the traffic around them as they exited the café..

"You are observant," Illya finally said.

"That sounds almost like a compliment."

"It is. You see everything in a place."

"Part of my job. Right now I see a clear coast, an expensive hotel room I want to use, and twelve hours until check-out."

Illya held back a knowing smile. His eyes swept the area, senses opening up and apparently finding nothing to alarm him.

Napoleon just smoothed his coat, walking purposefully down the sidewalk.

His Sentinel was at his side, still too tense for Napoleon's liking, still not happy with what had happened at the CIA. Not that Napoleon could fault him. If their roles had been reversed, if they had had to meet with someone from the KGB – which was Not. Happening. Ever – Napoleon would be entertaining murderous thoughts, too.

Illya had been provoked, riled up, and he needed an outlet. Decompress.

Napoleon didn't need to look at his companion to know that that was the truth. He decided to make it fun for both of them.

Sex was always the best way to calm down, work off excess energy. It was a proven method for him and it had come as no great surprise that it helped Illya, too.

Well, not only sex. Just… being there. He had been a bit thrown by how natural it was to share space, a bed or a couch, or just a room. It calmed him, made him drop his shields, let his guard down, and the same went for Illya. The simple sensation of the Sentinel in the room with him, all that power coiled so tightly around the other man, was something Napoleon had come to enjoy.

No, it didn't always need sex, but he had no plans to just cuddle this time.

He really did plan to take advantage of their hotel room.

After sweeping it for bugs.

 

 

He was proven right, of course.

More than once.

Lying on the luxurious bed with the insane thread-count sheets, out of breath and musing about Sentinel stamina, Napoleon could only hum in pleasure when those broad hands swept over his sides. He groaned softly when Illya licked over his flagging erection.

"Insatiable," he whispered, fingers threading into the blond hair that was already standing up in all directions.

"You drive me crazy, Cowboy," was the rumbled reply, the words vibrating around his cock.

Damn.

Damn, the man was a menace!

Napoleon twitched faintly, drawing a sharp breath when explorative fingers slipped deeper; inside.

"Not sure there is anything left, Peril," he breathed.

"Hm."

Oh damn.

 

 

They checked out the next morning, each from his assigned room – each on a different floor -- though Illya had spent the night wrapped around Napoleon like an octopus. That there were guns and knives close by was normal. Illya never went to bed without at least two weapons close at hand, underneath his pillow or otherwise hidden.

Suitcases wheeled out by the bellboy, whom Napoleon tipped quite nicely, both took a cab to the airport. Their car was already back at the rental car agency.

They were followed again, but Napoleon couldn't care less. Let Sanders keep tabs on them, see that they were leaving. He had packed up the assorted listening and tracking devices unearthed from both the hotel rooms and their clothes. All in one neat little parcel, addressed to Sanders.

He would have loved to dump them in his lap, ground into a million little pieces, but that would have been petty.

Then again, Napoleon could do petty.

Very well, too.

 

 

Napoleon enjoyed the first class lounge of the waiting area as Illya read through several newspapers, the languages ranging from English to German to Italian. There was no Russian one, though.

 

 

Their flight was on time.

 

 

Next stop: Los Angeles.

 

tbc...


	11. Chapter 11

Gaby had been looking forward to teaming up with her two most favorite agents in the world. While she enjoyed solo missions, they were so much more enjoyable with those two.

Okay, she had ended up with a twisted ankle the last time. It was a danger of this job, getting injured.

She met with the two men in a hotel, posh, up-scale, at the top of the scale when it came to luxurious places. Each had their own room. Hers was with a stunning view of the city and around the clock room service, which Gaby truly enjoyed.

Sure, she had swept for bugs first and she would do it every time she came back into the room, just like she checked for traps and hidden assailants.

Training.

When she met up with them outside on the patio, Gaby smiled at her two team mates. Both looked relaxed, at ease, and Napoleon was looking completely in his element.

Illya was his usual, distant and controlled self. His eyes grew softer when she approached, a smile gracing his lips.

"Gaby."

She had seen that expression directed at her before and back then she wouldn't have said no to something more intimate. Italy had been… it had been a relationship blossoming under pressure and the threat of death. She had been drawn to the tall, powerful Russian, though it had been a slow process.

Gaby had often questioned her choices back then. A KGB agent who had been sent to grab her, maybe take her to Russia, never to be seen or heard from again. What had she been thinking?

He had been a soldier, an inhuman thing chasing them down, but so much had changed within a few days after that. Illya Kuryakin had depths. He had feelings. He had a soft side.

Gaby had often compared him to a puppy with a killer instinct as sharp and honed as an attack dog's. He was not to be underestimated, but those intimate moments, his gentle touches, had proven there was so much more to him.

That was what she had been attracted to.

Maybe still was, but in a different way.

Gaby smiled playfully at him.

"Miss Teller," Solo added. "How nice of you to join us."

She sat down and nodded when the waiter brought her coffee in a delicate, porcelain cup.

"You are in a good mood," she remarked.

Napoleon sipped at his cup. "Sunshine, all the perks, the team back together… What's not to enjoy?"

"We have a mission," Illya remarked evenly.

"And that. Like I said, all the perks."

"I do not want to know about the other perks," she said slyly.

Solo's eyes took on a devilish light. "I know you've seen those perks up close and personal already."

"Not as closely as you might think and I might have wished for," she replied, the flirty playfulness refreshing.

Illya suddenly looked like he was just one more word away from blushing. Gaby had to smother a smile at how endearing the shyness was, especially in a man who was an Alpha Sentinel. Of course she had seen him with less than appropriate attire throughout the first time they had pretended to be engaged to one another. Of course she had peeked when he had changed in their shared room. She was a red-blooded woman and she could admire a body like Illya's, even if she had been less than pleased by the role he had played back then.

Yes, he was a fine specimen.

And no, she wouldn't have pushed him away if the bellboy hadn't interrupted them. That kiss had been a breath away from being real.

"Warm memories?"

Napoleon's grin was downright suggestive now.

Gaby exchanged a long-suffering look with Illya, who twitched a shy smile.

"Heard you went back to visit your old haunts," she said, eyes sweeping over the patio.

The few guests out here were enjoying tea, coffee, cold drinks, and snack food. Waiters mingled, ready to take away used plates or refill empty cups and glasses.

"And were glad to leave again. As was my old boss."

Napoleon looked like he had no care in the world, but Gaby knew him too well by now. There was something in those bright blue eyes, something like an old pain. And Illya looked suddenly tense.

"We got it over with. I think he was unhappy when I came in and just as unhappy when I left, though for different reasons." Napoleon studied his well-manicured nails. "Sanders never had an ounce of humor. He also doesn't like to lose."

"You were not his possession," Illya hissed. Blond brows lowered, the blue eyes narrowing.

Oh, dark clouds. Very dark, Gaby mused.

Solo just shot his Sentinel a charming smile and Gaby was amazed to see him suddenly relax. Ah, the anchor line at work. No touch needed, not even a single word. She was fascinated by the unconventional bond between the two so opposite men. They were nothing alike, there was actually no common ground except for their jobs, and still… Napoleon fit Illya. Like a glove.

Illya needed him. Just the way he was, banter, bickering, teasing and all.

"We have five hours until we leave," she said, again sweeping her eyes over the patio. Still no suspicious guests. "I plan to make the most of them. I advise you do, too."

"We always do," Napoleon quipped and his beaming smile had her laugh a little.

Illya just nodded, all professional again.

Gaby rose, picked up her handbag, and walked down the steps toward the sweeping garden that belonged to the hotel. She had a few things to pick up.

 

*

 

Illya had to give it to his American partner, he looked good in his tailored suits. Closely fitted, following the clean lines of his body, hiding nothing. Not that Napoleon needed to hide. The dark blue slacks, white dress shirt und the silvery gray vest made up for an enticing picture. The suit jacket still hung over the back of the chair.

Illya himself had opted for the charcoal suit with matching charcoal dress shirt and tie. He still remembered Napoleon’s more than lingering look when he had worn that outfit in Rome. This one was new, bought hours ago at a store that tailored to the wealthy and it had cost more than all the wardrobe Illya had ever owned.

Right now, that look was back.

“Keep it in your pants," Gaby said, smirking at Solo, who only gave her a challenging look.

Gaby herself wore an expensive designer dress that matched Illya’s suit. It was black, revealing enough to tease, and covered enough to be called decent and not slutty. Napoleon had picked it for her and Illya had had to agree that it was something she could wear.

“The eternal fiancé," Napoleon greeted her with a wink. “Ready?"

He looked his smooth, sophisticated self. In total control, that mild-mannered smile on his lips. All masks in place. This was the Napoleon Solo who had become the top agent. Urbane, self-assured, sociable, charming, and laid-back.

Illya found himself twitching a brief smile, which got him the head-tilt from his partner. Then Solo smirked back, clearly aware of the other man's train of thought.

"Boys!" Gaby snapped.

"Miss Teller?"

"Mission, remember. Game face on."

Napoleon chuckled and gave Illya a little wink as he walked past them. "I always have my game face on."

"Not believing you for a minute, Solo," she called after him, then linked her arm with Illya. "Shall we?"

Illya nodded. He pulled out a ring from his jacket's pocket.

Gaby smiled as he slipped it onto her finger.

"Now we are ready," he stated.

"Yes, dear." She batted her eyes at him over her sunglasses.

Illya looked a little flustered, then smiled. "Honey," he teased.

Gaby laughed.

And they were off.

 

*

 

The museum held a collection of such priceless art works that it made Napoleon's fingers twitch and his mouth water. Delicately framed beauties of the old masters, next to marble statues that put modern man to shame. It was an outstanding display, rare in the way it had been put together, extremely well-secured, but not impossible to break into.

The thief in Napoleon was already assessing the entry points, the alarm systems, cataloguing how to remove some of those delicate pieces unharmed, and he knew he could be in and out within an hour, carrying only the best, the most valuable ones.

"Focus," a voice in his ear jarred him out of his reverie as he studied the masterful landscape in a gilded frame.

He peered over his glasses to where Illya and Gaby were admiring a Monet that would have looked good in Solo's collection, and even better on his bank account. The vivid colors were simply an invitation to be looked at at length.

Their mark was currently talking to one of the art directors. He was a high-roller in the art business, donating money by the million when he deemed a museum worthy of his attention, but he was also known as a man who had smuggled away a ton of art the Nazis had plundered. Right now he was on the market offering several rather valuable pieces, from jewelry to ceramics and paintings, and it was up to Napoleon, Illya and Gaby to make sure they wouldn't end up in some collection and never seen again.

"I am focused," he murmured. "Very much indeed."

He sauntered over to another painting for him to study.

Normally the rooms would be rather crowded. Patrons moving past the masters, reading their booklets, listening to a guide, trying to keep children in check. This was a special night, with red carpets, speeches and everyone dressed up and looking important. Tonight was the night of the rich and powerful to make an appearance, donate money, and see to it that they were seen.

Rich, powerful and full of themselves. He sipped at his drink. Self-important and unaware of the real world around them, unless it intruded into their perfection.

Napoleon smiled humorlessly.

Time to get to work.

 

 

Two hours later he was best pals with the mark, who was already salivating over Napoleon's generous offer for rare, even if somewhat illegal, art.

 

 

Another hour later he was looking at what they had come for. And more. The man had a whole list of what was in his possession and Napoleon had glimpsed an address.

It was so easy to lift the list and the address, leaving the mark none the wiser.

Amateur.

"Got the address," he murmured as he slipped into his zippy little sports car.

Gaby gave an affirmative, already driving toward the warehouse. Illya was with her and Napoleon would continue to play his role, return to the hotel in case he was being followed.

 

 

Surprisingly the rest of the mission, the take-down of the mark and storming the warehouse, went without a hitch.

There was always a first time for everything.

 

*

 

"What a waste."

Napoleon hung his jacket over a chair with a sigh and stretched.

Illya raised a quizzical eyebrow.

"All that art." Another sigh. "Do you have any idea what kind priceless pieces the guy had in his possession?"

"Stolen. From people slaughtered by Nazis."

Napoleon shot the Sentinel a sharp look. "I know, Peril."

"Now the art is returned to the rightful owners."

"I know," he repeated.

Illya walked over to him, a scowl on his features. "And you are no longer an art thief, Cowboy. You are an agent. You apprehended an art thief."

"And for the last time: I know. I just… appreciated the art. I'm a connoisseur. I take pleasure in the finer things."

It got him a half-smile. "Appreciated, yes? More like mentally appraised, already sold to contacts you have."

Napoleon's face was serious, as was his voice. "I wouldn't steal that. Not plundered art."

"You didn't make such difference when you were part of the occupying forces."

"Times change. As do people. I also made a distinction between Nazi-stolen art and those little jewels my marks had already."

He turned away and unbuttoned the vest.

"Yes," was the slow reply. "People do change. Like you, Cowboy. Especially you."

Something shivered along his shields and he carefully dropped a few, feeling Illya move in, gentle darkness and white heat.

"I did what I did best," Napoleon heard himself say. "Lie. Cheat. Steal. I had found my calling. I took it off those murderous bastards and made money out of it. I was a corrupt criminal for hire." His lips twisted.

Illya was right behind him, not touching but still so physically there.

"We all did what we had to survive," he agreed.

Napoleon shot him a brief smile, eyes hooded.

"Took them a special unit to capture you, Cowboy," he went on, smiling more. "And they had to get lucky to really get you."

"Hm. Really lucky."

His Sentinel leaned down, lips brushing against his ear. "If not for your bad luck, we wouldn't be here today."

"There's that," he agreed quietly, leaning back a little, feeling body heat.

Illya's hand slipped under the open vest, over the firm stomach muscles. He pulled him back to rest against the taller blond.

"I'm grateful for their luck."

"Hopeless romantic," Napoleon teased with a huff of laughter in his voice.

"Your talents come in handy."

"My talents, hm?"

"You are one the best, yes?"

He shrugged, enjoying the full body contact. "It's rumored."

"And you have honor."

Napoleon was silent, but he felt Illya's believe in him, the confidence. "Yes," he murmured. "Honor among thieves."

"Tonight was temptation. You resisted. I am proud."

"Huh."

Illya gave a soft sigh, a knowing sigh. "What."

Napoleon reached into the pocket of his pants and withdrew a silver pocket watch. It was a small masterpiece, unique, worth quite a lot, and it would sell for a nice sum, he knew.

"Cowboy…"

He shrugged. "It was an opportunity that presented itself. On a silver platter."

A large hand cupped his, closing over the stolen item. "You are a menace."

Napoleon beamed at him.

"Do you plan on returning it?"

"No?"

Another sigh.

"Finders keepers?" he tried with an innocent expression.

"Do what you see fit."

Napoleon rolled his eyes and pocketed the watch again.

 

 

In the end he dropped it through the open window of a police car that had been parked while the officer was writing a ticket for a young couple who had been having too much fun with alcohol.

Illya gave him a fond look.

Napoleon decided not to tell him about the none too small amount of money he had liberated from their mark.

 

tbc...


	12. Chapter 12

It was Finland that proved to be a tedious, painful and a lot less smooth affair.

Lying in the cold dark of a Finnish winter, dressed in thick, wind and temperature resistant coveralls, Napoleon watched the movements below through the sights of a sniper rifle. Next to him, Illya was doing the same, his own enhanced sight not in need of the technological help, but he did have his rifle at the ready.

Snow was coming down in a light, almost ethereal shower, settling on the two men.

They had been here for hours, just watching, a frosty stake-out at the End Of The World, left of Nowhere To Go. Nothing had happened but people moving in the shadows between the lights set up outside the lab complex to shed some illumination.

Now a hangar door was being pulled open and more people appeared.

"Looks like they're getting ready to move," Napoleon murmured.

Illya gave an affirmative grunt.

It was time for them to move, too.

 

 

The secret lab blew up no ninety minutes later, lighting the dark skies, silhouetting two men slipping away.

It might not have been the plan to level the complex, but it couldn't have been prevented. It hadn't even been either of the U.N.C.L.E. agents. One of the lab security guys had fired right into a vat of highly explosive material, which had resulted in an explosion that lit up the landscape and could probably be seen from miles away.

Napoleon and Illya didn't stick around to see if anyone came to investigate.

 

*

 

Napoleon gave a pitiful groan as he warmed his hands over the wood fire oven. He had dumped the winter gear, dressed only in the black fatigues, and seeking heat from the cabin's sole source.

"Another outfit lost," he sighed and poked at the stains.

"Keep your fingers away from the wound," came a deep rumble.

Napoleon brushed over the bandage hidden underneath the black sweater. Illya had cleaned the injury and taped it. The explosion of the lab had flung so many metal shards around, it had been a miracle both men had come away with a few mere scratches. Sure, a sliver had been stuck in Solo's arm, but that was preferable to one stuck in his heart or lungs.

"How's the head, Peril?" he asked.

There was a butterfly bandage covering a nasty scrape on Illya's cheek. A deep bruise had already formed around it. Another one was decorating his forehead. It was hard to imagine that Illya had been kicked twice. The damage was rather small.

"Still attached."

"Uh, pirated Russian humor."

"Not pirated. Russians have a similar saying."

Illya was checking his weapons, taking them apart, cleaning every part, then reassembling everything. Napoleon watched it with quiet fascination as he warmed up. Illya's movements were sure, often practiced. He could probably do it with his eyes closed, and most likely with a hand behind his back.

They would have to wait for another six to twelve hours to head into Sweden by ATV, where they would catch a train in Kiruna, heading to Stockholm. It would give both men some time to sleep.

And eat.

Napoleon rummaged through the meagre stock of the simple kitchen. Mostly MREs, some undefined things that might be dried meat or fish, rice and pasta. Well, he would find out. For all Napoleon Solo was a connoisseur with a taste for the exquisite, he could make do with just about anything he could find. If it was edible, he would make a meal of it.

Napoleon sauntered over to the Sentinel and peered at the bruises. Illya's eyes looked up from his work, meeting Napoleon's cheerful smile.

"What?"

"Relax, Peril. We have some time and we're safe here."

"Safety is relative."

Ah, there he was. His by-the-book Sentinel. Peril was still in full operations mode and though Napoleon wasn't making light of their situation, disregarding the real dangers, he wasn't running in such high gears any more.

He perched against the table. "And we're relatively safe here. I'll make us something to eat, then we grab some sleep. We have a long day ahead of us. Do you need something for your head?"

"Do you need something for your arm?"

"Some cuddles?" he replied playfully, batting his eyes.

Illya scowled at him. "We still have work to do. Focus."

Napoleon gave him a little head-tilt, then the easy smile that was always there. "I'm always focused."

"Unless you are distracted."

"Even then I'm aware of my surroundings, Peril."

He felt Illya's strong, unrelenting presence along the anchor line, his own intense focus on what still lay ahead. Where Solo would think of a fun way to pass the time, Illya was absorbed in the mission and the mission only.

Yes, they made an incredibly good team, even if they were so completely different in their approach.

There was a gentle push against his shields and Napoleon blinked, then huffed a little laugh. He lowered the barriers and the dark presence that was Illya Kuryakin flowed closer, hugged him, surrounded him with soft coolness mixed with hot streaks of contained strength. It was a promise for later.

Napoleon wanted to lean over, kiss the man he felt so intensely, so deeply for, but he knew when to keep up his professional manners.

Like now.

He just caressed the silky tendrils, amazed again at what the bond enabled him to do.

"Yes," Illya murmured. "You are aware of your surroundings. Too trusting sometimes."

"I trusted you."

The Sentinel raised his eyebrows at him, eyes relaying the 'My point exactly' quite clearly.

Napoleon laughed softly. "Hungry?" he asked, nodding toward the kitchen stock. "I could offer a gourmet meal of jerky of questionable origin and old cans."

"Sounds delicious, Cowboy."

He grinned cockily. "It does, doesn't it?"

 

 

The meal filled their stomachs.

Both men sat close to each other, sharing body heat and comfort. The Sentinel would never confess to it out loud, but having Napoleon close by was calming him. Seeing his partner hurt was never easy, but it launched him into a fierce protective mode that was as intense as the red haze of anger.

"Peril."

He jerked out of his thoughts, looking into the knowing eyes. Napoleon elbowed him gently.

Illya grunted softly.

Solo leaned a little more against him, legs, hips and arms touching. Both men were armed, fully dressed, still very much alert, but Illya felt himself stand down slowly. The anchor was firm and heavy in his mind, giving the Sentinel a respite, the human being a moment to be himself.

He inhaled Napoleon's scent, mixed with the sharp tang of blood, gunshot residue, and mud. He closed his eyes, let himself fall, felt Napoleon's hand at the back of his head.

The other man hummed softly, shields down, his very presence surrounding Illya like a warm blanket.

It was the most intimate moment between them and it lasted no more than a minute.

But it had eased the tension, rebalanced him, and he gave the dark-haired man at his side a smile.

"Thank you."

"You're very welcome," was the low reply.

 

*

 

The weather grew worse within an hour.

Napoleon sighed, shaking his head, and stepped away from the window. Illya was busy making a fire from the stack of wood he had found. He had deemed it safe enough for them to have smoke coming from their hideout's chimney. No one in his right mind would be out in this weather, looking for two men who had blown up an illegal lab.

And it was damn cold.

Solo had already rechecked their food options and decided to whip up something from the rice and jerky. It might not taste like much, but as long as it filled their stomachs it would serve its purpose.

"I'll hazard a guess and say we'll be here the whole night. Maybe even longer," he told his partner.

Illya made an affirmative grunt, looking suddenly pleased when the fire took.

They might just get warm after all.

 

*

 

"Tell me why you didn't shoot me."

Napoleon looked up from his perusal of the piece of Swedish newspaper he had found. It was at least a year old, but it was a nice way to pass the time. And learn some Swedish. It wasn't too hard to glean the meaning of the words, though he wanted to hear them spoken, too.

"Pardon?"

"East Berlin."

He frowned.

"You had a clear line of sight. I was right behind the trunk of the car," Kuryakin elaborated. "I could see you. You could see me. It would have been easy."

"Ah."

Napoleon carefully folded the newspaper, smoothing out the wrinkled pages.

Illya waited.

"It didn't seem like a good idea at the time," he finally said.

That got him a pair of raised eyebrows that immediately dipped down in a well-known frown.

"Not a good idea? I was going to kill you, Cowboy!"

"Well, yes. I suspect that were your orders."

"And you didn't think it was a good idea to take a shot?" Illya asked sharply.

"No."

The Russian rose from where he had been stoking the fire. He stood in front of the other man, sharp eyes the color of a glacier fixed on him. There was anger in there. He was studying his Shield like the enigmatic man he was. A puzzle. Still not yet solved and maybe he never would.

Napoleon smiled, not a care on the world.

"Why?"

"You were… fascinating."

Illya's brows furrowed. "I was KGB agent hunting you down!" he stated forcefully. "Not fascinating!"

"And you didn't get us. But yes, you were fascinating me. You were like a relentless machine, coming after us no matter the odds. I had a plan. That didn't involve cold-blooded murder."

Illya huffed, sounding exasperated.

"Has that really been bothering you, Peril? All that time?" Napoleon asked, truly curious now, and not just a little bit fascinated.

"It was… on my mind," he confessed, looking a bit embarrassed.

"I did dump you in a minefield," Napoleon said helpfully, an infuriating smirk on his lips.

Illya snorted. "Could have shot me. Problem solved."

"Not my style."

"I noticed."

Napoleon placed the paper on the table and rose. The other man stayed where he was, just watching, still angry, still puzzled.

He put one palm flat against Illya's chest, feeling the singular strength in his Sentinel. He always claimed that touch was unnecessary, but it was another form of anchoring, especially for Napoleon. He would never say it out loud, but it soothed something inside him.

"I don't shoot anyone unless absolutely necessary," he said, voice dead serious. "I'm a thief, not a killer. When you were in that sardine can of a Trabant, next to us, waiting to strike… and I fired at you, it wasn't to kill. Wound, yes. Incapacitate. Never kill."

Illya looked stunned for a second, eyes widening a fraction. "You aimed… to incapacitate?"

"Yes. You also moved fast. Drove even faster. Like I said: you were and still are fascinating."

Annoyance replaced the stunned look. "It could get you killed, Cowboy."

"Hasn't so far."

Illya was visibly drawn between staying angry and letting it go. Napoleon closed in on the bond, let his emotions wash over the dark vortex swirling within Illya.

The Sentinel fought his presence, unhappy with Napoleon's approach to a confrontation with an enemy, but there was nothing he could do.

"You also came back for me. Saved me from drowning," he finally said.

"I was about to leave," Napoleon confessed softly after a long second.

"You didn't. Again: why?"

"You don't let your partners die. It would be rude."

The statement was met with disbelieving silence, that focused gaze even more intense. Illya placed a hand on Napoleon's hip, his fingers trembling. It wasn't the red haze. It was… different. This was just Illya, fighting to understand a man he was bound to, a man who was layers upon layers that peeled back so slowly.

"I was KGB."

"I know. Still extremely impolite."

"Enemy agent."

"Not then. At the time we were partners, had a mission. Reluctant partners, yes. But there was something about you, Peril. I liked it. I didn't really trust you, but you were different." Napoleon didn't meet the light blues eyes. "Wish I could say it was a Guide moment, but it wasn't. It was my own decision. I wouldn't let my partner, whoever he is, drown. We were in on this together and reporting back that you had been killed…" Napoleon shrugged. "Would have been bad on my resume."

"You have a bad resume to begin with, Cowboy."

He smiled crookedly. "That would have made it worse."

"Might have meant a medal for you. KGB's best agent eliminated."

Napoleon shook his head. "Not my call, Peril. Taking out an enemy agent… that's a hit. I'm not a hit man. Thief, gambler, undercover agent… I do all that. I'll shoot to kill if that's what it takes to complete a mission."

Like Vinciguerra Island. He had shot the enemy forces, had killed a few, but it had been necessary. He would have tried to incapacitate Alexander Vinciguerra if he had had a chance, but the man had surprised him.

It had been Illya who had killed him.

"Look what it got me." He smiled brightly. "You saved my ass from Rudi. I was convinced I'd end up in that scrap book of his."

The smile faltered for a moment, a tremor racing through Napoleon that he couldn't suppress. He had had a few sleepless nights over this, had fought demons, but he had powered through. Never talked about it.

And neither man had mentioned it to Gaby, what her so-called betrayal had meant for Solo. Waverly surely hadn't told her either.

Illya's grip tightened. The vortex surged forward, enveloped Napoleon's mind, calm, cool, silky, and yet so knife's edge and full of sharp teeth and claws.

He briefly closed his eyes, centering himself on the anchor, feeling the calming effect of his Sentinel, feeling nothing but protection and safety.

"Why did you come looking for me?" Napoleon asked, eyes still closed.

"We had been compromised. I escaped, but I couldn't find you. No contact. It would have been… rude to leave you their captive."

Napoleon gave a soft breath of a laugh and looked up. "Yes."

The Russian's expression shifted to something soft, something longing. "Couldn't let you die, Cowboy."

"Which I appreciated at the time. A lot."

Illya rested his forehead against Napoleon's, eyes closed, shoulders relaxing a little. Napoleon's hand was still trapped between them. He felt the strong heartbeat, a pulse that came across the anchor line, and he closed his eyes, too. He lowered the rest of his shields, let them flow together.

"I hadn't thought they would do… that to you," Illya rumbled. "Ever. Throw you in a cell, beat you up a little, maybe drugs. Scare you. But he… he was cruel."

"Torture always is."

"You have little experience with it."

Napoleon opened his eyes and looked at his Sentinel. "Thankfully."

His Sentinel pressed dry lips against his temple before he finally drew back, warmth in his eyes, so open and young.

"I never thanked you for being my partner, for trusting me back then as much as you did."

"Not used to it?" Napoleon asked lightly.

"Yes."

"Yeah, I can relate. I work better alone, too."

Illya smiled at those words.

Napoleon smiled back.

Not that many had wanted to work with him. Sanders had made sure that cooperation was all he got. He could always depend on the back-up to be there, like Agent Jones in East Berlin, but never where the action truly was.

That was over and done now.

He had a Sentinel. He, the not-Guide, had a Sentinel bonded to him.

Napoleon slipped the palm pressed to Illya's chest around the blond's waist and leaned up for another kiss, not disappointed in how the other reacted. His arm bothered him a little, but it was nothing to slow him down.

 

 

Outside the weather turned from bad to abysmal, snow coming down thickly, blanketing the Finnish landscape.

Inside the cabin, the two men sat closely together, sharing body warmth and the meal Napoleon had put together from mystery cans and some of the things he had been able to identify.

Sleeping arrangements were simple and neither had a problem with it.

Napoleon hummed happily, pleased, when Illya pulled him close, burying his face against his chest. Aside from some heavy kissing, nothing much had happened. Illya was still in full mission mode and not inclined to get more adventurous.

Napoleon, who was all for a little adventure, relented to his Sentinel's decision. They would have time for more later.

The blond fell asleep almost immediately, breathing evening out.

Solo followed not much later.

 

*

 

They caught their train a day late, two tourists enjoying the Swedish landscape after a skiing adventure.

If Illya saw his partner lift money, two tickets and a diamond bracelet off a man who had been arguing with one of the Swedish conductors over the atrocious service on his ride up to Kiruna, he didn't say anything. He just cocked an eyebrow.

Napoleon proceeded to a ticket counter, presented the two tickets, and easily managed to get them upgrade to first class, all amenities included. The lady selling the upgrade was absolutely enamored with the charming American tourist sightseeing in her country.

He followed Napoleon aboard the train and into the private first class compartment.

His Shield was anything but a normal spy and never would be.

 

 

It was amazing to see him work his charm like magic.

No one suspected that their upgraded tickets had been stolen. They were two gentlemen travelling first class, back from a skiing trip and enjoying themselves.

Illya didn't want to know how his partner managed to get them a set of new clothes. Napoleon just winked at him as he returned from his foray through the leisurely moving train, a suitcase in his hands that contained clothes and toiletries.

"I'm just that good," had been his answer to the unspoken question.

Illya didn't doubt it. "Decent enough job," he rumbled.

Napoleon gave him a mild-mannered, affronted look. "I'm amazing, you wanted to say."

"Don't let it get to your head, Cowboy."

"Do tell me if those clothes aren't like tailored to your size."

They were. They fit him and Illya had a hard time imagining how Napoleon had gotten his hands on them, but he wouldn't confess to anything.

"They'll do."

Solo sighed, sounding more put-upon than he actually was – not at all, really.

 

 

He checked on the injured arm once more as the train rode through the night, everything quiet except for the rattle of the cars. It would take sixteen hours to reach Stockholm.

Napoleon let him, his face carefully bland as Illya ran careful fingers over the bandage. No infection. It would heal just fine.

The American's fingers brushed over his own, taking the hand and pushing it away.

"I'm fine," Napoleon said softly, emotions bleeding into the words. "How's the head?"

"Fine," Illya echoed.

Napoleon didn't let go, his presence more pronounced now, the barriers going down. It was an amazing feeling, having his Shield so close, coming closer, and it took away his tension, left Illya more balanced.

While both had their separate beds, Napoleon somehow managed to squeeze in with him. It was narrow, but Illya didn't mind. He wanted the other man close, even if it meant Napoleon laying half on him.

It felt… natural.

He needed it.

Had never before. Not in all his life had Illya Kuryakin wanted another person physically this close, psychically bonded to him, and it sometimes made him stop and reevaluate everything.

"Sentinel thing?" his so very keen and astute partner quipped as Illya ran soothing strokes over the broad back.

Soothing for him. For Napoleon. It was for both of them, the touching, the caressing, and neither man truly fought it.

"Shut up and sleep, Cowboy."

The compartment was locked and secured. Both had weapons close by. Illya was in protection mode and no one would get in without either of them noticing.

He heard a soft breath of a laugh. "Sentinel thing," Napoleon just repeated, voice so soft and muffled against Illya, it was barely audible.

Except to a Sentinel.

Illya smiled involuntarily.

 

 

No one bothered them on the train, except the steward to bring both men breakfast. Napoleon found a newspaper and browsed through it, brows furrowed as he methodically went about applying his already acquired knowledge of Swedish.

Illya watched the landscape pass by, then went on a prowl through the train cars, making sure to know who was around them.

Napoleon let him. He knew all their possible emergency exits already and he had mapped out the train from the brochure, after which he had drawn their steward into a pleasant conversation that had the man happily talk about the train and where to find what.

Illya returned an hour later, carrying a platter of cookies.

Napoleon looked up from the crosswords and raised his eyebrows.

The blond looked a bit embarrassed. "Gift," he mumbled.

"What did you do? Help grandma and her pretty granddaughter?"

Illya grimaced. "She was older, yes. No granddaughter. Visiting her daughter and husband. She gave me cookies. I remind her of her brother."

"Russian, huh?"

"No. Swedish woman."

Napoleon looked at the cookies. "Did you check for poison?"

Illya shot him a look. Of course he had.

"She is not enemy agent," he stated.

Solo shrugged and bit into one of the cookie. He was pleasantly surprised by the rich flavor. Illya settled down across from him and took one himself.

"You are full of surprises, Peril," Napoleon, poking gently at the anchor bond. "And you have a soft spot a mile wide."

Illya's eyes narrowed, then stole a piece of newspaper from him.

Napoleon felt something warm blossom inside him and it had nothing to do with the delicious cookies.

"Won't tell anyone," he said, voice low, conspiratorial. "Your secret's safe with me."

Illya growled something.

Napoleon lowered more shields, pulling him mentally closer for a second, enjoying the softer expression in his partner's eyes. Then he settled back with a smirk that had Illya roll his eyes.

Outside, the Swedish landscape flew by.

 

*

 

When the train arrived in Stockholm both men disappeared in the crowd, wearing neutral outfits, blending in, looking right at home.

Napoleon picked up a newspaper and a book from a newspaper stand while Illya purchased sandwiches and two bottles.

Then they were off.

No trace of them remained.

 

tbc...


	13. Chapter 13

The next few missions were easy or medium difficult. Nothing out of the ordinary, except for stirring up some dust when they took down an international courier trafficking blackmail material against several politicians from all over the globe.

 

 

Then came Turkey.

Not Istanbul again, though they were briefly there, running down leads. After that the team had to split up. Antalya, Ankara, Gaziantep.

Gaby came up empty on her lead in Ankara.

Illya turned a bar upside down in Antalya, found useful information, and met up with Gaby halfway.

Napoleon hit the jackpot.

And he went undercover.

 

*

 

Illya had woken early. Not because of a noise or sound from outside. Not because he had sensed an intrusion. He had simply come awake, no longer tired, and he had remained in bed, listening to the soft breaths coming from his partner.

He had woken to the feeling of safety, warmth and completion. In that order. It was still new for him. Everything was… completely in balance. Illya had never felt this calm and collected, so aware of everything despite the heaviness of exhaustion from the past missions. He was sharper, more within himself.

Napoleon was still deeply asleep, had finally given in to the exhaustion chasing him for the past few days. He had been undercover for two weeks, running on fumes by the end when they had rescued the kidnapped teenage son of an influential Italian politician from Turkey, near the Russian border and destroyed the warehouse filled with counterfeit money.

Solo had operated alone for most of the mission, almost seamlessly sliding into the ranks of the group behind the operation. The Sentinel had been forced into the role of a watcher and while Illya didn't need physical closeness to his not-Guide, he had been on edge the whole time. But so had been Gaby. It had been worry about a team mate, a friend, and in Illya's case a little more. They had been too far away to be of immediate assistance and that had eaten away at him.

Gaby had distracted him as best as she could, giving him heaps of intel to sift through and help get this whole mission packed up faster. Illya had steadily worked through it all, glad he wasn't the regular kind of Sentinel, and still keenly aware of what he was missing.

Napoleon had finally given them the signal and Illya had swooped in, killed some thugs, and they had made it out with the traumatized boy. Napoleon sported a few scratches and he had nearly dislocated his shoulder, so that was more than a little sore.

The Sentinel had been livid, hiding his anger behind his usual, bland mask, though his eyes were unable to. Gaby had simply poked him hard and told him to keep it together, while others gave him a wide berth.

He also doubted that he would have lost it. He hadn't felt the tic.

The destroyed bar in Antalya hadn't been a volatile explosion. It had been calculated, planned, scare the information out of the people Illya knew had it.

And it had worked.

Now, waiting for his partner to make contact, he had been just tightly coiled, tense, unable to relax.

Napoleon's presence had helped immensely when they had picked up him and the kidnapped teen. Illya had simply let himself focus on the other man, make sure he was alright, and then they had completed the mission.

 

 

They hadn't touched more than a clap to the shoulder.

Gaby's said more than words, but Illya refused to compromise himself like that.

He didn't need touch. Napoleon was fine. His Shield was unharmed, just a little banged up.

"Children," had been her only comment.

 

 

The flight to London, the debriefing, the medical exam, it had all leeched the last of Napoleon's strength and by the time they had been released and sent home, Napoleon had been dead on his feet, too pale, dark circles under his eyes, and still he had been his charming, sophisticated self. A façade to fool a world that wanted to be fooled.

Illya wasn't part of that world.

The doctor had told him, quite firmly, that his shoulder needed rest, prescribing painkillers and something to aide him in case he needed help falling asleep.

Of course Solo had fought against the sling.

Of course he had nearly thrown the medication into the trash before Illya had grabbed the bottle and pocketed it.

His true exhaustion and pain had only shown when the door of the car had closed after him and he had dropped his head on the headrest, closing his eyes with a weary sigh. His barriers had gone down, his masks following, and there had been only Napoleon.

Illya had been struck by how vulnerable he had looked at that very moment. And he had been honored in a way. He knew his partner trusted him implicitly. He wouldn’t have shown his exhaustion otherwise.

 

 

The first touch, intimate and so very real, was behind closed doors. Locked and secured. No bugs or cameras. Just them.

Illya didn't know how much he had needed the sensory reassurance, that last of his five senses clamoring loudly, until he brushed a hand over the stubbled cheek.

Until Napoleon tiredly leaned into the caress, too far gone to uphold any kind of pretense.

Just them.

It had been a long moment, standing there, Illya running feather light caresses over the American's face, his neck, his side. He felt the heat from the strained muscles in the injured shoulder. He saw fine tremors. He listened to the exhalation of relief from Napoleon, finally within a safe place. And he wanted to taste his lips.

It was a dry kiss, a brush of lips against lips.

Napoleon smiled faintly.

"Bed," the Sentinel only decided.

There was no argument from his partner.

 

*

 

Sitting with his back against the bed’s headrest, Illya studied the youngish features, a little too hollow for his liking, the sharp cheekbones standing out more. Napoleon’s hair hung into his forehead, adding to the innocent picture.

Using sound, Illya checked his partner’s heartbeat, his breathing, and found it to his satisfaction. He dialed it down easily, then proceeded with a visual examination before he reached out and touched the wavy, dark hair. No heightened sense of touch involved. He simply enjoyed letting the silky strands glide through his fingers.

In the past, bed partners had been for times when relief was needed, when his own hand hadn’t been enough any more. He had sought out women in bars, easy pick-ups, easy one-night stands. There had hardly been any kind of meaningful emotions involved. It was for both their pleasure and then they had been a memory. When he wanted them, Illya had also found willing men. Those had been just as far and few as the female companions.

Napoleon wasn’t like them. He was his alone. Illya had never possessed anything personal but his father’s watch. There had never been personal relationships, just temporary partners. Friends or any other kind of close relationship could be used against him. Agents were warned about it. Families were potential hostages, material for blackmail.

So was a Guide.

More so than anyone or anything else. Guides were a strength and a terrible weakness. Take a Guide and the Sentinel would flip, would do anything to get them back. Kill a Guide and you ended up with a feral one like Bragg. The KGB had been more than pleased that their top agent didn’t need this kind of help.

Now he had… Napoleon.

Napoleon meant more to Illya than anything he had ever experienced. He wasn’t the weakness, the liability. He was strong. He was a trained agent. He was independent. He was capable of so much.

And threatening to kill him would send Illya into the red zone, but not into a feral or primal mode. Killing Napoleon wouldn’t cripple him, simply remove the anchor that gave him his humanity.

He would be like before.

A sledgehammer, a weapon, following orders.

“You make me human, Cowboy,” he murmured.

The dark-haired man beside him moved sleepily. Illya continued his petting, amazed that he could do, was allowed to do it. Napoleon slept as deeply with him as he would anywhere else he was completely sure of his safety.

Trusting.

Illya felt a smile steal over his lips.

Just touching Napoleon spread assurance through him. He wasn’t alone any longer. He would never be alone again. The distress of before had vanished, making room for clarity and self-awareness, for contentment and security.

 

*

 

Waverly told them they had a week to recover until they were back on U.N.C.L.E.'s duty roster again.

Napoleon looked almost relieved when they returned to their shared office and Illya closed the door to keep out unwanted listeners or watchers. Then he wrapped an arm around his not-Guide's waist and pulled him against with his back against the Sentinel's chest.

Solo stood still, then, from a second to the next, he relaxed into the embrace, resting his head against Illya's shoulder.

"Where do you want to go?" he asked softly.

"Away," came the equally soft rumble.

"I know a dozen places that fit that description."

He huffed a little laugh.

"Ever been to New York?"

"America."

"A plus in geography, Peril."

"I have been to New York. Loud, big."

"There's this nice place called The Hamptons."

Illya made a non-committal sound.

"There's a place, a house."

He frowned and Napoleon turned in the loose embrace.

"Private," Napoleon added.

The Sentinel studied the open features, felt the hum of the anchor line. "Yours?"

"Ah, well…" he hedged.

"In a way?" he translated.

"I… know someone who would let me stay there."

Illya didn't push. His Shield was a man of many layers, and of a lot of money. Maybe the house belonged to him, maybe to another person, maybe to a made-up persona.

"So?" Napoleon prodded.

"Yes."

The smile was blinding.

 

tbc...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, it was shorter than the usual updates. I didn't want to post part of the next chapter and break that one up in the process. Much more to read tomorrow :)


	14. Chapter 14

"You know that part of my job is undercover work, getting close to a mark, seduce them… use them?"

Illya looked up from his study of a map of Copenhagen. A mild frown graced his forehead. Their week in the Hamptons had been enjoyable. There had been no mission, no cover to work. There had been just them, checking for tails and watchers, of course, and searching for bugs and cameras whenever they came back.

But that was routine.

It was in their blood and it was the first thing Illya did, much to Napoleon's ongoing amusement.

The weather had been too cold for a dip in the sea, and Illya hadn't fancied a swim anyway. They had mostly just hiked along the shore paths, had strolled through the small towns, and Napoleon had cooked.

The man could have become a master chef if he had put his mind to it. He simply excelled at making exclusive little meals. With the abandon of seafood, Napoleon had been in heaven.

Illya had enjoyed it.

Watching his partner work was an art.

"I am aware of that," he now said slowly.

Napoleon ran a hand over the tie, then slipped into his vest. The Sentinel's eyes followed his fingers as they slipped the buttons.

"Can't have a possessive Sentinel barge in and ruin it."

The blond rose slowly, each move coiled power and strength. In normal people it triggered a flight reflex. In Napoleon, not so much.

Illya studied him with that impassive face, but along the anchor line, emotions sparked and encompassed the American agent, drawing him in.

"I know," the Sentinel said softly.

"So we're okay with the plan?"

Get close to Maria Gustafsson, widow of the recently deceased – more than likely murdered – billionaire shipping tycoon Einar Gustafsson, who was suspected to smuggle drugs and weapons, as well as be involved in human trafficking. Get her to trust Napoleon Solo enough to invite him into her home. If it ended with sliding into her bed to distract any kind of suspicion, so be it.

"It is the job," Illya said, but he sounded far from happy.

Napoleon met the cool gaze, then placed one hand against the broad chest. The effect was immediate. Illya felt that sudden calm, that heaviness that wasn't a burden in his mind, his anchor.

His other arm curled around the waist, pulling the blond into kiss him.

"It is the job," Napoleon echoed. "Nothing but the job."

Illya, in a rare display of being a Sentinel, nuzzled against his temple, inhaling deeply. Napoleon had to smile. He turned his head and caught the other man's lips.

It was the first time since they had bonded that Solo was doing this. He didn't have to sleep with the mark, but if it served the mission, he would do it. In the past Napoleon had enjoyed sex, even if it hadn't been part of the mission.

Now… he didn't. Only if it was necessary.

It wouldn't be the last time that was asked of him, by the CIA and now by U.N.C.L.E.

"We're good?" he whispered into the kiss.

Illya made an animal-like sound and pushed him back against the hotel room wall, but instead of tearing the expensive clothes off, he buried his head against Napoleon's neck. Solo threaded his fingers into the short hair at the nape of his neck and scratched the warm skin.

"We're good," Illya whispered after a long moment.

Napoleon never ceased the petting motions. His breathing was calm, regular, his whole being centering on the bond, and Illya drew strength from it. A strength he hadn't been aware of needing.

It was a job.

Their job.

And they did it.

 

*

 

The con went well. He spent the night with the grieving widow, who was a bombshell in bed, then slipped out when the woman was asleep to crack her safe, make copies of her numerous logs, codes and everything else he could find, and slipped out into the night.

Gaby and Illya were waiting for him as planned, Gaby at the wheel, Illya riding shotgun, with an actual gun on his lap.

They wordlessly drove toward the harbor where their ride was waiting.

 

 

It wasn't until they were in their respective cabins on the freighter running under a British flag, heading for Liverpool, that Illya finally showed emotions. The door firmly locked, both men alone with nothing but the sound of the water outside, the engines rumbling as they labored against the waves, the Sentinel looked at his partner, nostrils blowing wide.

Napoleon saw no tell-tale twitch of an imminent outbreak – there was barely anything in those bunk rooms for Illya to tear apart – and he tilted his head a little. He lowered the barriers, felt the anchor take hold, and then he was flat on his back, on the bunk, his partner kneeling over him.

"Uh, Peril?" he grunted.

"Mission is over," Illya snarled.

"Oh-kay… Is this some caveman statement of possession? Because let me tell you, I'm not that easy. I expect to be wined and dined and…. Mhmpf!"

The kiss was hard, possessive. Illya was using his height and weight to his advantage, keeping Napoleon firmly in place as he hungry licked and bit at him.

Damn, that was hot. He slipped his hands under the hem of the ever-present turtleneck and pushed it up, revealing smooth, warm skin.

"Geez, Peril," he gasped when he came up for air. A little laugh escaped him as he met the glacial eyes that were filled with desire and something else.

Something very primal.

Napoleon relaxed in the hard grip, let his muscles loosen, and he was allowed to move one hand to cup the strong jaw. He stroked a thumb over the faint stubble.

"Yours," he stated.

The Sentinel seemed to twitch a little, fingers flexing.

Oh-kay. This wasn't their first time. They had been firmly bonded for months. And now this?

Who had been the one to say they were doing this in reverse? Napoleon wondered. Oh right. It had been himself.

Here they were, Illya behaving like he was about to bond to a new Guide, all primal and intense.

Yes, hot, he decided. Really, really hot.

And he had an idea what had caused it, though it puzzled him a little.

"We knew what was going to happen going in. And it changes nothing, Peril. Nothing at all." He lowered the rest of his shields feeling the sharp claws of Illya's presence reaching for him.

Gentle.

Ever-so gentle.

He embraced the inky blackness, drew it in, enveloped it with his own mind.

"Illya," he murmured.

It got him an exhalation of air.

Their lips met again, gentler this time, but the way Kuryakin was grinding against him, shifting to get even closer, Napoleon knew this was just the beginning.

And he didn't even mind.

Sleeping with Maria had been a job he had had to do; no emotions involved.

This, here, wasn't a job. This was real. As real as he had ever felt anything before.

He lightly bit Illya's lower lip. "Mine," he murmured.

An avalanche of emotions cascaded through those glacial eyes.

He pushed his hips upward, against Illya, and felt the response immediately.

"Less clothes," Napoleon ordered, pushing at the turtleneck again. "A lot less."

His Sentinel quickly got with the program.

 

 

If Gaby had any idea what her two team mates had been up to until the time they ran into each other in the galley, getting food and coffee, she didn't say. But her expression was quite telltale. As was the twinkle in her eyes.

Illya, the prime example of Russian stoicism and perfection, only raised an eyebrow at her. She mirrored the gesture, then patted his arm and sauntered off. Napoleon, who looked a lot more mussed than his usual sophisticated self, just rolled his eyes.

"Decompressing alright," Gaby only commented when Napoleon settled next to her after getting his food.

The galley was mostly empty. The crew ignored them.

"None of your business," he told her cheerfully.

Gaby sipped at a glass of water. "Only if I see naked butts."

Napoleon stopped the fork with the piece of scrambled egg, halfway to his mouth, mind racing whether either of them had been outside the cabin in the past twelve hours, let alone butt naked.

Gaby grinned, unrepentant.

"You, Miss Teller, are evil," he stated and shoved he egg into his mouth.

"Not news," Illya commented as he sat down as well.

Gaby winked. "Finally channeled your inner Sentinel?"

He huffed a little laugh that was barely perceptible as such, only to his friends, then started to demolish his breakfast. Napoleon raised an eyebrow when everything disappeared lightning fast.

Gaby was unperturbed.

"You okay?" Napoleon asked, eating at a more sedate pace.

"Everyone's a perfect gentleman. Not that I see many. The captain invited me for dinner."

Illya froze and his brows lowered in an expression of barely contained anger. His hackles rose and his fingers curled a little.

"And I'm going to accept it," Gaby continued, giving him a warning look of her own.

"Gaby…"

"He will be the perfect gentleman or he won't be a man for much longer." She picked up a slice of orange.

Napoleon smirked. "Have fun then."

"I intend to. Until then, I'll be working on my tan."

Gaby rose.

"Oh, and, Solo?"

He raised his eyebrows. "Yes?"

She tapped at her neck. "You might want to put something on that."

"I'll keep that in mind," he replied conversationally, fingers not reaching automatically for the mark he knew was on his neck.

A bite mark.

A quite visible one.

Gaby laughed and walked out of the galley, leaving the two men behind. Illya looked a little flabbergasted.

"Problem, Peril?"

"She…"

"Is her own, very capable woman. Believe me, she will make good on that threat."

"I believe her," Illya replied earnestly. "She is a strong woman. Wrestler."

It got him a chuckle. "Oh. That." At Illya's look he added, "We talked. Once. She told me."

"Ah."

"And she won."

"I wouldn't say…"

Napoleon raised his eyebrows and Illya fell silent.

"Now." Solo wiped his fingers on a napkin. "I think we should explore our transport a little, don't you think?"

The blond nodded, rising with a silent grace that had Napoleon want to drag him back to their room.

But he had better self-control.

Much better.

Still, it was a fight.

 

*

 

Napoleon found that Illya enjoyed staying on deck, the cool air and spray of water quite invigorating. The Sentinel had chosen a spot aft, in a corner that was easy to defend should anyone be foolish enough to ambush him, and his eyes were trained on the horizon. Dusk was bathing everything in a weird purplish light.

"Storm coming," Illya murmured, almost to himself and so low, Napoleon barely caught the words.

Wrapped in his winter jacket, Solo stood next to the taller blond, frowning at the clouds.

Two more days till Liverpool. It might just be a rough ride for a day.

Two days of downtime with nothing but a cabin with bunk beds. No posh hotel room, no champagne, no expensive dressed, no haute cuisine.

He liked it, he found.

Simplistic.

No expectations.

His stubble, the lack of suits, the jeans and sweater he wore now, were proof of that. Napoleon Solo could rough it. He could play the rich business man, the playboy, the worker, the unemployed down-on-his-luck office worker. He had played many roles.

This wasn't a role.

The wind tugged at his loose hair, ruffling Illya's, and he huddled a little closer to the Sentinel.

"Cold?"

"Nope."

There was a tiny smile teasing Illya's lips. He shifted his weight to insure full body contact, though it didn't look incriminating, should anyone stumble upon them. With the dark falling and the corner section close to hidden, there was almost no chance in hell.

He leaned down a little, his breath hot against Napoleon's ear, the lips grazing the outer shell.

"Storm's here soon. We should go inside."

Napoleon shivered a little, but he could only agree. He luckily didn't suffer from sea sickness, since the waves had increased and both men were slightly more damp than half an hour before.

Illya nuzzled against where the bite mark from last night was hidden underneath his clothes. It had been the first time the Sentinel had left such a visible mark.

Sure, there had been little bites before, something he enjoyed and something he enjoyed giving back. But never in such prominent places. Both men made sure that when dressed up for the job, neither showed incriminating evidence.

Not so last night.

And damn, he was getting slightly aroused just thinking about it now.

He wasn't a teenager anymore and still… right now he wanted to not leave the bed for a very long time. He really needed to read up on some of the more saucy details of Sentinel-Guide bonds.

Not a Guide, a nasty little voice reminded him. Well, not so nasty. The truth. Napoleon Solo wasn't a Guide. Illya Kuryakin was no typical Sentinel

So why were they just now going into some kind of rut?

Napoleon's eyes were on the horizon.

He loved Illya. He had told him so already and it had been the truth. A revelation, but the truth. And he loved what they did in bed. Or on the couch. The kitchen island. Against the wall.

Well, just about anywhere.

He suppressed a smirk.

Normally this happened when the Sentinel and Guide initially bonded. Not months later.

The bond thrummed between them, a low, intense sensation that did things to Napoleon…

He inhaled deeply.

"C'mon, Peril. Time to go under deck."

The Sentinel's expression was intense. Hungry. Dark, but not in a terrifying way. It was focused on him.

Yeah, it was time to go.

 

 

The storm hit them full force an hour later, the sea boiling, the waves crashing against the freighter. It roiled through the North Sea, everything that wasn't buckled down flying through the cabins.

Napoleon and Illya were in the lower bunk, wrapped up in each other, safe and secure. Illya had made sure Gaby was fine, getting the Teller version of a dressing down at his implying she needed anything.

"Strong woman. Hard-headed, too."

Napoleon grinned at him. "You should know. She's your fiancée-girlfriend-wife-plaything, Peril."

It got him one of those scowls.

 

 

Illya buried his head against Napoleon's neck, placing a gentle kiss onto the soft, warm skin. The scent of his partner was everywhere, calming and arousing in one. He had never felt more like a Sentinel than when he was with Napoleon.

So free

So unbound and still firmly anchored.

Blunt teeth worried at a patch of already marked skin, drawing a stuttering breath from the American, and Napoleon pushed back into the hardening length.

None of this had ever happened to Illya before. Wanting something for himself. Wanting to mark, but not possess. He didn't want control over his Shield. He didn't need to.

His hands glided down the naked front, long fingers wrapping around the hard evidence of his partner's state of arousal.

"Cowboy?" he murmured roughly.

"You drive me crazy, Peril."

He laughed, though it sounded a little forced. He wanted this man so badly. Again and again. He wanted to push inside and renew the mark.

"Do I?"

"I hate you," was the growl.

Illya kissed the red indention. "I think I love you, too, Cowboy."

Napoleon turned his head, blown blue eyes revealing so much. Everything else was broadcast loudly along the anchor line. No shields between them when they were alone.

The ship hit an especially hard dip between waves and both men bounced a little, their kiss sloppy and actually missing the intended target. Napoleon gave a small hiccupping laugh. Illya shared the amusement, pulling him closer, fisting him slowly.

"Peril…"

"Hm?"

"I'm going to hate you for a very long time if you don't get with the program," Napoleon hissed, hips stuttering a little.

He didn't need further invitation. The need to claim, take, mark, was too strong to resist.

 

 

Napoleon returned the favor after a period of recovery, sounding almost broken as he came deep within his Sentinel, collapsing onto the broad back.

Illya was breathing hard, sore and worn out, but feeling incredible.

"Napoleon," he whispered, voice raw.

Blue eyes, dark with spent pleasure and unfiltered emotions, met his own.

The bond buzzed between them, alive and filled with everything they didn't say.

"I know," his Shield replied, sounding just as raw. "I know."

And he looked positively wrecked.

Illya nipped at the reddened lips, gentle and loving. "Sleep," he whispered.

It got him a twitch of a smile.

 

 

The storm lasted till morning.

 

*

 

Illya woke to a very awake, very naked Napoleon Solo sitting in the bunk with him. Their legs were tangled, Illya curled half around the other man's lower body. Napoleon smiled cheerfully at him.

The red bite mark stood out like a beacon.

"Good morning, sunshine."

Illya got up slowly, eyes sliding from the mark to Napoleon's eyes. The smile was still there, open and real. The shields were down, the dark vortex between them languid, warm and stretching like a cat in front of the fire place.

The driving force behind last night's intense encounter was gone. It had left a pleasant tingle in its wake.

An awareness.

Of his Shield.

Napoleon reached out and cupped the stubbled face. "It's okay," he answered the unspoken question.

His other hand brushed over the mark. Illya caught the fingers, sliding over the injury.

"I never… this… never before…"

It was embarrassing. He had given in to his baser nature, had let go and had taken from his Shield what he had wanted.

"You never bonded before."

"The bond. It happened months ago! I never felt… anything like this. I shouldn't." Illya shook his head.

"You shouldn't feel so intensely for me?" Napoleon asked, eyebrows rising.

He felt a moment of intense confusion, replaced by panic, then replaced by denial. "No! I shouldn't… force…"

Napoleon chuckled and shook his head. "Oh, Peril. You didn't force me to do anything. I'm not your submissive little thing."

No, he wasn't. Solo was strong, able to hold his own against the stronger Sentinel, and Illya had no doubt that a Guide, even a not-Guide like Napoleon, could use a bond to their Sentinel to keep themselves safe.

"Listen, we're the most unlikely pair to ever come into known existence. Your instincts… well, you had none concerning a Guide. What we had so far was intense already. Maybe it all took time? Maybe… you're slowly growing into what it means to be a Sentinel?"

"I know what being a Sentinel means!" he protested.

Napoleon cocked his head, tugging him a little closer.

"Of course you do. You are the perfect Sentinel." He slid a broad palm over the naked chest. "Absolutely fine specimen of an Alpha. But you were wired wrong. As was I, remember?"

Illya nodded, quite aware how different he had always been.

"So you're probably just getting to know another side of that, hm?"

"It's dangerous. Leaving such marks."

"Most likely," Napoleon agreed easily. "You could find a different spot for them," he suggested with an eyebrow waggle.

Illya felt something inside him surge forward, wild and untamed, hungry. It was powerful, primal, wanting and far from human. Napoleon laughed, eyes lighting up, the sound free and careless.

"Hit a button there, Peril," he teased.

Illya fought down the primal surge, closing his eyes, expelling a sharp breath. "Cowboy…"

"We can work out a place, okay?" Napoleon forced his chin up and he opened his eyes. "I don't want to run around in your turtlenecks all the time. Not my style."

Illya surged forward, capturing the smart mouth, pushing Napoleon back down.

 

 

It took them another hour to get into the galley for coffee and a hearty meal.

 

 

Gaby saw them a little later and she started to laugh and shake her head.

Napoleon looked simply intensely pleased.

Illya wanted to sink into a hole in the ground.

 

*

 

"Do you miss Russia?"

They were almost in Liverpool, the horizon slowly filling with the sight of the British coastline. More and more freighters appeared in the distance, heading for the ports.

Illya, leaning against the guard rail, looking windblown and a little more relaxed than usual, shot his partner a look. He looked so young, so careless for a moment, almost innocent. Napoleon had to stop that train of thought because this man was hardly any of those things. Except young.

"Why the question, Cowboy?"

Napoleon shrugged carelessly, dislodging the scarf he had wrapped around his neck. "Just wondering."

The Sentinel turned and rested his lower arms on the metal rail. "Nothing left for me there."

It got him a glance. "Family?"

"You know."

Of course. He had read the file. The father had died in Siberia. The mother when Illya had been just eighteen, after joining the Russian military, heading for Special Forces. No siblings. Extended family was close to non-existent.

"Why the question?" Illya repeated.

"Well, since we hooked up, I wondered if I'm going to be introduced to the family," he quipped easily.

The blond didn't show a single emotion, didn't twitch a muscle.

"Not sure what the Russian tradition concerning Sentinels finding their Guides is," Solo added, giving Illya a roguish grin. "Show them off to the family? Have a welcome party? Some kind of ceremony?"

"You are not a Guide."

"Well, no one knows that, right? Everyone just assumes."

"Wrongly assumes," came the growl.

There was a moment of silence. A long moment. With the horizon growing nearer.

"What would the procedure be?" Napoleon asked quietly, the wind almost ripping his words away.

Illya turned his head, the sole focus of those glacial eyes now on Napoleon. "No introduction. I was KGB, Cowboy. Like property. Useful. Guides are KGB. You do not mix business with private matters."

"Business." Napoleon rolled the word over his tongue. "Huh."

"For Russian agents, KGB Sentinels and their Guides, it is business. A necessity. To function."

He nodded, the wind blowing his hair into his eyes. He shoved it away.

Illya's presence grew, loomed over him without the other man moving an inch, and then enveloped him completely. It was a hug. It was something simple and still so profound.

"You are not a Guide," the Sentinel murmured, shifting his head a little. "You're so much more. I'm no longer KGB. If I had a choice… had anyone left… I would introduce you, Cowboy." He lifted a corner of his mouth. "Just for kicks."

Napoleon laughed softly.

"My father would have hated you," Illya continued. "American capitalist. Corrupt. Criminal. Spy."

"Terrible spy," Napoleon interjected impishly.

"Absolutely. Still a spy. My mother would be accepting. She would have loved you." There was a wistful expression on the youngish features and Napoleon wanted to just reach out and hug the other man, take away the painful memories, but he knew he couldn't. Those memories were there. All the love, the joy, the fear, the terror, the pain.

He scrubbed a gloved hand over his cold face. "Same here, Peril. Same here."

Because while there was family left, they weren't interested in contact. Neither was Napoleon. He had lied about almost all his life when joining the Army. Too young to be legally recruited. Quickly rising in the ranks with forged papers.

His parents, what he remembered of them, would have welcomed Illya. Not right away and his father would have distrusted a Russian on sight. His mother would have tried to smooth the waves and probably introduced Illya to the whole neighborhood, proud of her son and his Sentinel.

She had never known what Napoleon was. Neither had his father. He also had no idea if there had ever been a Sentinel or Guide in the Solo ancestry.

And now the melancholy was pushing down on him, too.

"What if a mission sends us to your home?" he asked, dragging himself out of the past.

"No longer my home. My country where I come from, where I was born, but not home."

There was deeper meaning in those words and since Illya was still a very strong, unmovable presence along the anchor line, Napoleon got it right away. He pushed away from the guard rail, aware that his Sentinel was following, and when they were in that private corner, he pulled the other man close and kissed him hard.

Illya went with the flow, quite invested in the kiss, too, and Napoleon ended it with a little bite. He tasted salt water. He tasted Illya.

"Guide moment?" the Sentinel asked.

"Not a Guide," was the automatic answer. "But a yes to the moment."

"When we have to go to Russia," the blond rumbled, "it will be the job. A mission. Nothing else."

"The KGB will most likely tail us from beginning to end."

"Easy to lose."

He grinned. "Yeah. Look how well Berlin worked for the two of us. Lost you in a minefield, Peril."

Kuryakin chuckled. "My greatest shame as an agent. And my luck." His hand came up and his knuckles ghosted over Napoleon's temple. "The first to beat me, Cowboy."

Solo smirked.

The ship's horn sounded loudly and both men peered around the corner, seeing the port of Liverpool filling the horizon completely now.

"Ready?" he asked.

Illya's face was schooled into a neutral expression as he nodded and stepped away from his Shield.

Time to get their things, find Gaby, and wait for their pick-up.

 

tbc...


	15. Chapter 15

Another two months later and Waverly met them over tea and scones in Dublin. It was a right, sunny day, exceptional, actually. Sure, the weather lasted for barely an hour when another rain shower hit, but it was sunny afterwards again. Typical Irish weather.

The meeting place was a busy coffee place in a shopping street and they secured a private area up on the second level gallery with a good view of everyone and everything around them. Aside from them, there was no one in sight.

Planning, Napoleon mused. Cunning planning.

“I wanted to inform you, gentlemen, that I finalized your permanent removal from your respective agencies,” Waverly informed them cheerfully without preamble as he stirred his tea.

Napoleon felt his jaw drop.

Literally.

He had never been this blindsided in his life before.

At his side, Illya had stiffened, broad shoulders locking into place, his spine like a steel rod.

“Due to your new status as a bonded Sentinel, with an American of all people, shame on you, Agent Kuryakin,” their boss continued easily, “the KGB sees no further need of your services, which they strangely perceive as compromised now."

The stillness that was his Sentinel would have been eerie to Napoleon a few weeks ago, but it was like a beacon, an alarm going off in his head, only for him to hear.

"I have spoken at length with your organization," Waverly continued, the cool professionalism in his eyes at odds with the general expression of smug amusement on his face. "Your transfer is complete and final. All ties cut, I believe I can say. You won't be able to return to those old lives, nor will they be able to draft you again. I hope it's to your own satisfaction in how the matter was handled. I'd hate to see you mourn the chance to say your good-byes to fellow agents. Or carry out y box of trinkets and personal belongings from your office desks."

Waverly raised a quizzical eyebrow.

Illya's hands clenched and unclenched, though the tic had yet to start. Napoleon felt along the anchor line and there wasn't a trace of the red haze of anger.

Only confusion.

And something else.

Waverly nodded as if that was answer enough and transferred his serious gaze to Napoleon.

"The same goes for you, Agent Solo, by the way.”

There had been close to four years left on his sentence, Napoleon remembered faintly. It would have been his luck to at least serve some of them at U.N.C.L.E., with Peril, but now…

"Mr. Sanders was struck strangely speechless when I told him of your status as Agent Kuryakin's bonded partner, Alpha level, but not a Guide. He then asked if it was a joke." The Brit steepled his fingers, an ironic smile on his lips. "He also implied that you might have somehow… faked your way into this. He was quite insistent. I explained to him that I do not make jokes on serious matters. You are, officially, a bonded pair, though your true status as a Shield is kept redacted from our records."

Napoleon felt his head reeling.

"We listed both of you as Alpha level, due to Mr. Kuryakin. Usually an Alpha Sentinel bonds with a Guide of the same strength and level. In your case, we ran in bit of a snag, so I decided to simply… adjust." Waverly smiled pleasantly. "Our eyes only. Should someone get their hands on your files, the information is a little bit more, let's say, vague."

It was a new world, new doors opening, and others forever closing behind him.

Napoleon had never felt like this. Maybe back when he had been with the Army in the occupied West Berlin. Maybe later, when he had acquired and sold art and antiquities.

Freedom.

Everything was his choice, and his alone.

To hell with Sanders! He was finally free of the prick! Ten years of service, listening to the derogatory remarks, his talents appreciated, his character not, and he was free!

The surge of emotions was hard to define and he wasn't sure he could keep his happiness contained. He was struggling to maintain a mask of polite distance, but he knew he was failing.

Waverly's smile and the expression in his eyes told Solo that the Brit knew exactly what was going through his head.

Napoleon sensed a wave of something dark coming from the Sentinel beside him and glanced at the other man, but there was no tell-tale twitch of another episode. So far, those psychopathic waves hadn’t surfaced again, even under pressure, and Solo was pleased with himself. Even without training, the Shield worked.

Maybe because of that.

Maybe because he was actually winging it most of them time, unable to say what he did exactly, only that Illya felt more relaxed and at ease than ever before.

Light blue eyes, too bright and intense to be merely human right now, met his. Napoleon felt a wave of something again, dark and threatening, part of that vortex at his Sentinel’s core.

Out of the corner of his eyes he caught the shadowy movements, seeing a bushy tail. It was winding through the chair legs, darted under tables, and generally bounced around like a rubber ball.

And there was something deeper, darker, flowing after the bouncy, bushy-tailed thing. He only saw it for a few seconds, was there and gone like an after-thought, but Napoleon knew it had been… real, in a way.

Waverly seemed oblivious to the surge coming from the Sentinel, but in the past months Solo had learned never to underestimate their boss. The man was sharp. He saw things.

Illya rose abruptly, wordlessly, and left. Napoleon sighed and emptied his tea, folding his napkin on the plate.

“Sir,” he excused himself.

Waverly gave him a nod, his eyes intense and very knowing.

“And thank you,” Napoleon added. "I know what you did for us. It’s more than just appreciation, too. My partner might not be able to express it, but he feels thankful, too.”

“I’m quite aware of it, Agent Solo,” the commander said quietly. “It was of utmost importance to see this through, as quickly as possible." His expression seemed to sharpen somewhat. "When I snatched you from your respective agencies, so to speak, time was of the essence. Letting you leave Rome would have been unacceptable. Seeing that you hadn't killed each other over the tape was rather refreshing. It told me enough about your mind-sets and your ability to work together."

Napoleon's lips became a thin line.

"I know the risk involved for you and Mr. Kuryakin at the time. Sanders would most likely only have slapped your wrist, found a miserable mission for you to make you suffer. For your partner it would have been worse."

Oh, Napoleon was aware of it. Illya already lived with his family's shame, with his unique status, with no friends, allies or connections. Losing the tape to an American agent or letting the agent destroy it would have meant prison. Napoleon was quite aware what that would have done to him. Even as the KGB's top man, an Alpha Sentinel, they would have made an example out of him.

Just a few months in a GULAG would have hurt Illya more than anything else. Not only was he an Alpha Sentinel, he was a KGB agent. Those never fared well in such institutions.

"I had to be quick. For everything else I could take my time," Waverly said calmly. "You are my agents now, Solo. And he is your Sentinel. No going back.”

“I’m not his Guide,” he said reflexively.

It got him a chuckle. “I am very much aware of it. Which is also to our advantage. You are his Shield and that is more powerful than a Guide, my boy. He doesn’t need help focusing as a Sentinel. He needs it as a human being, to channel the human rage. I know the psychologists said he was psychotic, that as a Sentinel he was below average material and shouldn't even have come online so strongly. You bring those two sides together, without erasing either." Waverly leaned back. “Shields are severely underestimated nowadays. You can work as a Guide, Napoleon, if needed. You have that ability in you. But you are better at protecting your Sentinel’s humanity. Or bring it out in the first place."

The words hit home. Strongly.

Napoleon didn’t think it was too difficult to turn his fellow agent into a true human being. He just poked, prodded and pestered Peril enough to get a reaction. The three big Ps. His talent as a Guide was probably as close to zilch as ever.

But he knew the tics were gone.

Not the rage, but the explosion came in a different way. Controlled.

Waverly tilted his head a little and smiled.

“A Sentinel needs both sides, Napoleon. The warrior and protector, the one that will go up against impossible odds. And the human side, the caring, the empathy. Agent Kuryakin has been missing that since he became active. He was born with a flaw, or so it seemed. It isn’t a flaw. He just needed something other than a Guide."

“Me."

It sounded close to laughable.

“You. The pot and kettle analogy. Quite fitting in my opinion."

Riiight.

"Now please go and kindly keep Agent Kuryakin from possibly destroying another hotel room.”

“Yes, sir."

 

 

He found his wayward partner not far away, standing outside a park, hands pushed into the pockets of his leather jacket, sharp eyes on the street. Illya was wearing his habitual cap, half his face hidden in shadows. He tracked the movement of the people everywhere and didn’t even turn when Napoleon joined him.

“Cowboy," he only said, voice low, dark.

Ow, that sounded painful. Grating a little. Lot of emotions that his emotionally repressed Sentinel didn't want to let out. He looked about ready to snap.

“Peril."

Napoleon wanted to ask him if he was okay, how he was doing, but he didn’t really have to. He just had to listen to what the bond whispered.

It was something he was still getting a hang of. With the ability to handle his shields with more ease, thanks to the anchor, Solo had found that if he lowered them fractionally, he caught little glimpses of what was going on behind those iron walls.

Not that Illya ever truly hid anything. He was just… private. No. No, that wasn't it. He wasn't used to letting anything show, always closed off, unapproachable, untouchable. Showing weakness was a liability.

But Solo didn't look for weaknesses.

He was gauging his partner's state of mind right now. And what it told him was that they had to get somewhere more private.

So he just walked off down the street, acutely aware of Illya following him.

They ended up in Illya’s tiny hole of an apartment, a place used for temporary lodgings of agents while on a mission in a city. It held no personal touches, consisted of bare walls, fading wallpaper, a tiny cubbyhole of a kitchen and only two moderately sized rooms.

Not that Napoleon's looked any better, but at least his had a view. This, here, was a basement.

“You okay with this?" Napoleon asked.

There was no answer, just Illya staring out the basement window, which was barely large enough for him to squeeze through but would function as an escape hatch in an emergency nevertheless. He was checking for tails or whatever.

“Peril?" he probed. “Are you freaking out on me?"

In his own, very unique way, Napoleon added silently.

“I do not freak," Illya rumbled.

Of course not. That wouldn’t be the Russian way.

“Concerns? Because let me tell you, before today, I had concerns. Big ones. Mainly to do with who we are. Your side wouldn’t trust me for a minute not to corrupt their model pitbull in puppy's clothing. Mine wouldn’t be too happy with me snagging a Sentinel from behind the Iron Curtain. One who doesn’t actually need me, which means they would have no control over him, and... Oof!"

He was pushed back and into a wall. Hard. That was an ongoing theme here.

“You are needed, Cowboy," Illya growled, sounding like a big, angry beast about to tear someone's guts out. “And wanted."

Napoleon blinked. Then something pushed against his barriers and he dropped them automatically, feeling the familiar, ferocious mass of darkness surge forward, envelop him, protective and aggressive in one. He closed his eyes, for a second just reveling in the feeling of… this.

“Better than sex," he breathed.

It got him a throaty chuckle. “You should know. You have enough reference material."

The teasing note was clear, the bout of anger gone like it had never been there.

Illya was still right in front of him, looming, one hand on the wall, another now relaxed at his side. It had been balled into a fist before.

Napoleon looked into the too bright eyes, elegantly raising an eyebrow.

“I did not freak," the Sentinel finally said. “I just saw my future. I never have before."

Oh… oh!

“My life. My own life. One I can live," he went on. "Belonging to me."

Napoleon was slightly at a loss as to what to say. It was a sensation, a feeling, he had had himself. Mirrored.

For both of them it had been freedom. Was freedom.

"No leash," he heard himself murmur softly.

"No leash," Illya echoed.

He raised his eyebrows. "Only U.N.C.L.E. Different leash."

There was a low rumble, almost a laugh. "Their leashes are…bearable. They wouldn't make me lose you. Wouldn't break the bond. Wouldn't break you."

Napoleon swallowed. He had never thought about that possibility. Of course, the CIA wouldn't have been all too happy with a Russian Alpha Sentinel, but they would have made it work. The KGB… probably not so much. They would have tried to break the bond. Illya had been functional without a Guide, so why not remove the Shield? And maybe the CIA would have done the same, taken the Sentinel out of the equation because their most effective agent in terms of undercover work and theft wasn't a real Guide.

Napoleon felt his stomach clench.

A large hand tentatively settled against his waist, then pulled him close.

He went.

Illya buried his face against his neck in a very Sentinel way. Napoleon closed his eyes, felt the inky blackness again, caressing him with a tenderness no one would ever believe. Like he was the most precious thing.

They were free of their respective agencies and handlers. No longer just on loan. Sanders could go fuck himself.

Napoleon felt an almost vicious smile rise

Free.

It was a new concept for him and something completely foreign for Illya. His partner was nuzzling him, fingers twitching against his sides, and he was clearly scenting. Not like when they were in bed or making out in a dark corner. This was way more explorative. It was what the antique little book had called imprinting.

Huh.

It was a bit late in the game for that, Napoleon mused, enjoying the attention. Then again, they really were doing this whole stint in reverse. From beginning to end.

He picked up a surge from the Sentinel, all senses opening, encompassing Napoleon in a way that happened before either. It was a single-minded attention that left him almost breathless with its intensity.

Illya lightly bit at the skin of his neck, then his throat, marking. His presence along the anchor bond increased, coming closer, seeping into every nook and cranny, caressing Napoleon in a way that was familiar and still new.

It was soothing.

Like a first approach, all probing and careful, getting to know a prospective Guide, easing into the surface bond – one that didn't exist. The bond was already established.

Shields opened, flowing apart under Illya's approach, welcoming him.

It felt amazing.

“Hey," he murmured after a while. “Not that I’m not enjoying the whole Sentinel bonding moment…“

Illya’s head jerked up like he had been shot and it was so sudden, such an unexpected reaction, Napoleon only reacted when the other man stepped abruptly out of the embrace. It also left him a little off balance.

“Whoa! Not what I meant with it, Peril!"

Illya looked startled, actually rather confused, it seemed, by his own actions.

“I don’t… this is new," he muttered, sounding unsure.

Not like on the freighter, when Illya had become rather possessive and for the first time left a bite mark in a visible place, marking his not-Guide. That had been a physical display and Napoleon had been just as invested.

This… this had been like meeting for the first time. And then again, not.

Like trying to bond, the Sentinel initiating it.

And again: not.

We are doing this backwards, Napoleon thought giddily. So very, very backwards and kind of wrong, but it felt amazing and right.

Screw conventional bonding.

That wasn't them.

“Must be you, Cowboy," Illya said softly.

Napoleon smiled cheerfully, intent on chasing away the moment of terror and confusion. A wave of reassurance rose, flowed toward them, the bond vibrating warm and comforting.

“I excel at everything I do," he quipped. I'm just that good."

Kuryakin lifted a corner of his mouth, but there was a warmth in his eyes that had Napoleon slightly breathless.

“You are."

Large hands cupped his face, blunt fingers exploring every inch. Long, lethal fingers. Very Sentinel, sure, but also incredibly human. He kissed a finger as it trailed over his lips and Illya’s pupils blew wide.

Ah. Dialed-up sense of touch. Interesting. Also scent. He could see those nostrils blowing wide. And he might just have added taste, too.

Napoleon felt a little devilish as he did it again.

“Don’t start anything, Cowboy."

“I intend to finish it," Napoleon answered slyly.

He pushed the taller man back until Illya was with his back against the wall. The Russian let him, looking almost indulgent.

 

 

Illya leaned down and kissed Napoleon, their lips chasing each other until Solo surged forward, pinning him down and taking control. Illya stepped back, letting the other take over, dominate, control. He had never done this with anyone else before meeting his Shield. He trusted Napoleon; only Napoleon.

Slipping the belt out of the buckle, his partner ran a teasing finger over the still closed zipper.

“Eager much?” he murmured as he encounter the straining bulge, then moved the zipper.

The Sentinel growled softly.

Napoleon grinned, that cheeky, know-it-all smile.

And then he sank to his knees, hands brushing over Illya's stomach, then his thighs and further south. Still fully clothed and Illya with his fly open and his turtleneck pushed up to reveal his stomach. The blond groaned when those deft fingers found their prize.

“Cowboy,” he managed, then bit his lower lip to keep from crying out louder.

Illya’s eyes rolled back and his head thumped against the wall. His fingers scrabbled against the wallpaper and he had to lock his knees. Napoleon had a technique that let him see stars and pray it would never end before he even got serious, and he liked to practice on Illya.

Not that the Sentinel would ever refuse.

Sex with his not-Guide was so much more than Illya would ever have thought and maybe it was different with another person, but with Napoleon it was heaven and hell, it was pleasure and pain, it was an impossible brightness and the darkest blackness, all wrapped up in one unassuming man.

He came with a choked off cry, knees almost giving way. His hands bit into the wall, clawing, tearing at the wall-paper. His mind seemed to keel over, easily cushioned by the anchor, and wrapped up safely.

Napoleon looked up at him, smug and satisfied, clearly aware of what he had managed to do: blow apart Illya Kuryakin's control, make him come in almost record time and lose himself in the orgasm.

He tried to get his breathing back under control, but he felt like he had run a marathon.

"You?" he managed.

The other man rose and smiled. "How about we move part two into the bedroom?" he proposed casually, a playful note in his voice.

"Good idea," Illya answered, a tingle of excitement shooting through him,

Napoleon drew him into a kiss, nipping at his lower lip. His intention was clear and Illya was all for it.

He liked feeling Napoleon inside him, just as much as he wanted to slide into his partner and hear him moan.

Blue eyes, a shade darker than his own, danced with happy anticipation and hunger.

Illya kissed him a last time and then headed for the bedroom, very much aware of the other man following him.

 

tbc...


	16. Chapter 16

Ilya Kuryakin wasn’t a man for subtlety. He was a force of nature. He was a loaded weapon on a short fuse. He was teeth and claws in a handsome package, tearing apart what threatened him. If let lose, he brought down the enemy without remorse. There was a kind of finesse, but in a different way than Napoleon would handle a matter. Illya left bodies in his wake. Solo was smoother, refined, trying to keep the kill count to a minimum. Where Napoleon operated under the radar, snuck in and out like the thief he was, Illya charged.

So handling the man was a full time job.

The scowls cast his way had Napoleon smile brightly, giving his partner cheeky winks. It usually ended in even darker looks and a flare of emotions Napoleon felt without lowering his shields.

That was the beauty of their unconventional bond: he felt Illya’s state of mind through the shields. It was like running an intervention without touch or words. Part of him just reached out and enveloped the Sentinel‘s mind, soothing the spikes, and then everything was quiet again. He was a regulator, a dial down button, but he rarely used that advantage. Illya had no need of a leash or a cage, a voice in his ear. He just needed to know there was someone to have his back.

A new concept.

For both of them.

That Napoleon still didn’t register as a Guide was just the cherry on top.

 

 

That fact he came aware of when Waverly had them on a joint mission with two US agents, who happened to be a bonded pair. They were in Switzerland, following an information broker, who bought and sold data with no regard as to whose side he was paying or receiving money from. The two US agents had been trying to get to him Stateside, but he had slipped from their grasp, fleeing to Switzerland.

That was where U.N.C.L.E. had come in. Marcus Weller had been on Waverly's list for a while and with his appearance in Europe, closely followed by the Sentinel-Guide pair, he had offered a helping hand.

So here they were.

Waverly had told them to take the man alive, if possible, but to bring back whatever he had on him. There would be clues as to where he stored all that data.

Napoleon wasn't impressed by Angel Carmichael, a C-level Sentinel with three active senses, and Nathaniel Daniels, her Guide. Those two seemed less than pleased with having two other operatives butting in on what they saw as their case.

Carmichael was a woman in her early thirties, he suspected. Dyed blond hair – dark roots were showing -- dark eyes and an Italian touch. She was a head smaller than Napoleon, with an athletic build, and dressed smartly. She was looking down her nose at Napoleon and barely gave Illya the time of day. Daniels was probably the same age, looked like the All-American poster boy, dark-haired and blue-eyed, and was rather brusque in his behavior.

They weren't making a very good first impression. Or second or third.

Actually, Napoleon decided, no impression was made at all.

Especially since Carmichael kept shooting Illya narrow-eyed looks that had the Sentinel on edge. Napoleon felt the annoyance that was slowly turning into animosity, and gently pushed it back. He let himself be enveloped by the inky darkness, held and cradled, as if Illya needed this to keep himself from lashing out.

“So you are U.N.C.L.E.'s Sentinel?"

Illya looked at the woman, the US agent, face expressionless. His eyes were icy, no human emotion in them.

Alarms were ringing through Napoleon, but he didn't reach for the Sentinel. Illya was perfectly controlled right now. This wasn't even posturing.

Well, Carmichael was posturing, asserting her superiority for some reason he couldn't fathom. He could read it in every line of the woman's body, but Napoleon had no idea why. Illya was being Illya. If she had any sense in that pretty head of hers, she would switch down a gear and slowly pull away.

“Why the question, Agent Carmichael?" Napoleon asked amiably, all charm and ease.

Illya was usually hard to miss as a Sentinel. He threw it right into another receptive’s face, even without actively trying to. Napoleon was just a neutral, barely there.

The cool, aloof and pretty much arrogant look was now turned on him. "We heard that U.N.C.L.E. had hired a Russian Alpha." She narrowed her eyes at Illa. "You don’t register like one. And you have no Guide. We were told you are an A-level. U.N.C.L.E.'s primary team, their top men. I severely doubt the truth in that statement."

Napoleon's smile never faltered, grew more playful and almost flirty.

"Normally I get to know someone better before starting to fling insults."

She didn't give him more than a scathing look.

Illya scowled at her, but he didn’t reply. He felt Peril’s tight hold on his control, but he wondered why Carmichael didn’t see him as others had before. Even Bragg, who had been rather insane, had immediately recognized Illya. So what gave?

"Now that introductions are over," he said calmly, his whole behavior mild-mannered and easy, "how about we get on with why we are having this little get-together?"

Carmichael scowled at him. Daniels had yet to say a single word. His eyes were tracking between Illya and Napoleon, clearly looking for something and not finding it.

Illya's nostrils widened fractionally, a muscle in his cheek jumping ever so faintly.

Napoleon gave him a gentle push through the bond to snap him out of it. He didn't really want to break up a fight between two Sentinels, even though he had a good guess who would win this.

Carmichael wouldn't stand a chance against the Red Peril here.

Daniels touched his Sentinel, a light grip on her wrist, and Carmichael's expression changed, easing, the tension draining slowly.

Napoleon cocked his head a little.

Huh. Well.

Illya didn't ease up on the cold expression or the tension himself, just turned and walked away.

Napoleon clapped his hands. "Great!" he declared with a cheerful smile. "Let's start then."

 

*

 

The mission went smoothly, with just two explosions, one shootout, and a slightly messed-up Weller, who was sporting a broken nose and a twisted knee, as well as an assortment of scratches and blooming bruises.

Not Illya's fault.

Also not Napoleon's.

The man had insisted on jumping off a balcony with no regard to the lack of cushioning underneath.

Well, the tree had stopped his fall, but it hadn't really been gentle. The man had crashed to the ground through the branches and ended up looking a lot worse for wear.

Illya looked a little singed around the edges from the explosion, but nothing more serious than reddened skin. Napoleon had lost a really good suit, which he had mourned since it had been such a good fit. It had been severely singed and the blood stains hadn't helped.

"Complete loss," he sighed, holding the jacket between two fingers. It was an absolute mess. "Such fine work, destroyed forever. The pants are gone, too."

He ineffectively patted at the stains and encountered another hole. It was really too bad.

"You'll live," Illya only commented.

Weller was loaded onto the next plane to the States.

Mission accomplished.

But they were getting strange looks again and again.

“What is their problem?" Peril growled.

Napoleon tilted his head a little, studying the other agents like they were the most fascinating specimens under a microscope. Daniels was still watching him, thoughtful and still rather puzzled.

“I don’t know," he finally said. He gave the Guide his most irritating smile and the man looked away, pretending to check his gear. "Let's find out. Agent Daniels!" he called. "A word."

Daniels looked up again, frowning mildly. "Agent Solo."

"You look like a man with a million questions," Napoleon said with inviting charm oozing into every word.

Despite his disheveled state – pants a complete loss, jacket a goner, white shirt smudged so badly, no one would be able to clean it again, let alone get the burn smell out of it, and his exposed skin was smeared with soot and grime – Napoleon could still pull off the look of a man in complete control and currently in charge.

Daniels frowned, looking caught again, then straightened.

Solo waited, still smiling brightly.

“You’re not his Guide."

He raised one elegant eyebrow, all easy lines and not a care in the world.

“Pardon?"

Daniels looked both confused and determined. “We were briefed on the U.N.C.L.E. operatives that would join us on the retrieval of Marcus Weller. A Sentinel and his partner. Since we were told that Agent Kuryakin is an Alpha, working with a C-level like Angel was not seen as a problem. But you are not Agent Kuryakin’s Guide, Agent Solo. I don’t know what game you two are playing, but he’s also not an A-level."

"Really."

"Someone lied."

"Ah. You think so?"

Daniel's looked slightly pissed off now. "We were lied to by your organization about both of you. Either you pretend to be a Guide to a low-level Sentinel or Kuryakin pretends to be an Alpha, which he is clearly not."

Napoleon carefully schooled his features. "I can assure you, Agent Daniels, Agent Kuryakin is a Sentinel. And they don't get any more Alpha than him. U.N.C.L.E. has no reason to lie about who and what he is."

"Clearly they do. An Alpha can't hide what he is. Kuryakin isn't even a C-level…"

Napoleon's feature were reflecting nothing but politeness, but his eyes were hard now. "A word of warning, Agent Daniels: stop speculating on matters you can't fathom to understand."

Daniels had the gall to snort. "Alpha's are so strong on a psychic level, even the lowest level empath can perceive them. Agent Kuryakin should be broadcasting. He isn't."

"There is a first time for everything."

The other man frowned, clearly not convinced. "Even if I was to believe that, which I can't, you disrespect him, Agent Solo. A Guide does not disrespect their bonded Sentinel!"

Dark eyebrows winged up. Napoleon kept his pleasant façade firmly in place. "Is that so?"

"You argue."

"Of course we argue."

"Over procedures. Over his abilities. That is disrespectful! You also call him 'Peril'."

Solo smiled brightly. "Yes, I do. Good observation, Daniels."

"A Guide would never do that."

Napoleon shook his head minutely. "What backwater county did you come from Daniels? You really think that? You think you have to be subservient, say yes to everything Carmichael tells you, and be fine with bulldozer methods that might get you killed? Daniels, you're a trained agent, just like your Sentinel. You are partners. Equals."

The Guide looked furious. "She is my Sentinel!"

"And you're an idiot."

The anger in the other man's eyes flared hotly. "At least I don't pretend to be something I'm not!" he snapped. "You never registered, Solo, and now you play the role of a Guide to an Alpha? I know what you are! A thief, a convicted criminal the CIA snatched up and made their pet."

"Most effective agent," Napoleon corrected him with a lethal calmness that should have given Daniels a first hint.

"A lap dog! Once a criminal, always a criminal."

Solo just tilted his head with a mild smile.

"You're a disgrace!"

"And you have a stick up your ass," Napoleon replied conversationally. "Then again, maybe you wish you had one. Or a spine."

The other man took a step forward, hands already balled into fists. His face was twisted into an ugly grimace of fury.

A growl was all the warning Daniels got and then Illya was right in his face, a fist twisted into the dark blue sweater, glaring full force at the hapless Guide. Glacially blue eyes that gleamed almost silver in the light of the room narrowed dangerously.

Daniels could barely breathe, fingers uselessly trying to ply the strong grip open.

Illya's expression was lethal. Not feral, no. This was far from feral. He didn't bare his teeth, he made no sound at all, but it was terrifying to just look at him.

Napoleon could only compare it to a psychopath on the verge of killing someone in hideously creative ways.

A muscle in Illya's cheek twitched.

His jaw was tightly locked, molars almost grating.

And his eyes were… intense.

Time to intervene, Napoleon decided, pulling slightly at his cuffs and flicking tiny flecks of dust off the dark jacket.

“Let him go, Peril," he said calmly. He hadn't so much as twitched when the Sentinel had swooped in. "He's not worth the effort."

Illya looked like he wanted to do the exact opposite. He was radiating danger by the ton. It was like a physical presence, snapping and hissing around him, and Daniels was starting to look decidedly gray.

The Sentinel's fingers tightened their hold, twisting the shirt more, and Daniels gave a little wheeze.

"He accused you of pretense." And damn, that sounded like it hurt to talk. Low, cold, flat. Emotionless. "Of lying. He claims that I lie. I do not lie."

Napoleon regarded him steadily, not backing down.

He also didn't touch.

This wasn't about grounding his Sentinel. This was a different kind of bomb to diffuse. Maybe he should be tickled and honored that Illya had come in like a vengeful spirit to defend him, but part of him was close to slapping him on the nose with a paper like a misbehaving puppy.

And wasn't that an amusing picture? crossed his mind.

“Don’t make a mess that I have to clean up again," Solo said, his voice holding a bored tone, masking his readiness to intervene on both a physical and a mental level in a mch more pronounced capacity.

Napoleon knew he could keep his partner from killing Daniels. Illya wasn't that far gone and he also sensed no murderous intent, aside from choking the guy a little more for good measure.

“Nate!"

“Aaand it gets messy," Napoleon sighed, turning to the Sentinel rushing toward her threatened Guide, never losing the good-humored smile. “Agent Carmichael! How nice of you to join us."

The woman had her teeth bared in a very unbecoming snarl. She shoved Napoleon aside with more strength than he would have thought she possessed, only to run into a backhand slap that had been coming in so fast, even Napoleon was surprised.

KGB training coupled with Sentinel reflexes and abilities, he mused, fascinated.

Angel wheezed, but she wasn’t deterred, trying again.

This time, Napoleon was ready.

He tripped her.

Her eyes were murderous.

“Please do us all a favor and ease up," Solo advised with absolute calm and disregard for the tension. “Your partner was just flinging a few theories around that mine didn’t agree with. Like the suggestion that I’m not Agent Kuryakin’s Guide. It didn’t sit well with Agent Kuryakin." He glanced over his shoulder at Illya, who was still holding Daniels in an almost-choke hold. “Peril? Let go, please? Agent Carmichael would like her Guide back."

He pushed along the bond, politely of course, and poked Illya a few times, bringing his point across.

There was a long moment, then Illya stepped back with a warning snarl and pushed the hapless Guide away from him. Daniels rubbed his throat, looking a little too gray.

“Thank you," Solo said with a charming smile. “Some advice, Agent Daniels: you might not want to fling around theories on matters you have no information of. It will only bring you pain, as you can see."

And with that he briefly opened his shields, noting with vicious satisfaction how both agents flinched from the impact. Revealing an A-level of Illya’s strength was a blow to the nuts, alright.

“How… you… you mask him?" Carmichael managed. “No Guide can do that!"

“Because I’m not a Guide. He doesn’t need a Guide." Napoleon turned to his partner, who looked as stoic and controlled as they came. “We’re done. I need a drink, then another, and dinner. I know just the place to that, too."

Illya shot the other team a cold, warning look, then followed Napoleon, who had simply strode off.

Between them, the bond hummed with Napoleon’s dark satisfaction and the remnants of the outbreak.

 

 

“Idiots.”

Who was Napoleon to disagree with that statement?

"Attacking my partner!" Illya snarled harshly. "He had death wish!"

"Easy there, Peril. Those were only words."

"Words are enough!"

Hands pushed into the pockets of his suit pants, the perfect image of lean grace and suave charm, Napoleon smiled crookedly. He was leaning against the door jamb like he didn't have a care in the world. Or posing for the cover of a magazine.

"You don't have to defend my honor, you know."

Illya stared at him, eyes alive with fury. Napoleon let it wash over him, feeling the calm settle in its wake. The Sentinel blew out a breath, shaking his head as if to dislodge those thoughts. He was slowly unwinding.

"Think what they were told, Peril. You're an A-level Sentinel, alpha status. They expect me to be the Guide and I'm not. Probably heard a ton of rumors, too. Carmichael couldn't sense you. Daniels watched and never saw us interact like those two do. No touches, no caresses, nothing. She needs him to focus her sight. You didn't so much as look at me."

"I don't need you for that."

"I know that. You know that. They don't. It made them suspicious."

"So you dropped the shields?" Illya growled, clearly unhappy.

Napoleon gave a careless shrug. "It was a gamble. Daniels said neither him nor his Sentinel could sense you all too clearly. It seemed logical to connect it to me. I'm you Shield, Peril."

"You mask me?"

"Apparently."

The blond was suddenly right there, moving so much faster than a man his size should be able to. His eyes roamed over Napoleon's face in an intimate caress. Then his fingers feathered over his temple and down his cheekbone where the gash had been weeks ago. It had healed without a trace, but it seemed Illya knew exactly where it had been.

"Touch," he murmured, stating the obvious and so much more.

Napoleon smiled, warm and open, so different. "Touch," he agreed.

"I do not care what others think," Kuryakin said sharply, voice low and intense. "I do not care what lies they spread, what they believe I am. There was no need for a demonstration."

Napoleon caught the hand, interlacing their fingers and kissing Illya's knuckles. "I do. You are my Sentinel, aren't you?"

"Yes."

"We might be the most unconventional pair, but we aren't second class, Peril. You are an Alpha Sentinel. I'm proud to be your partner."

"Shield," Illya corrected him, those intense eyes boring into him. "My Shield."

His presence was nearly overpowering now and Napoleon gave him a gentle push, both physically as well as through their unique bond.

The Sentinel frowned, then relaxed and the lines on his forehead smoothed. Napoleon tugged at their joined hands and Illya leaned down, lips curving into a smile. The kiss was brief, almost chaste.

Soft and tender at first, tongues slowly exploring already well known territory, but discovering something new each time. The kiss became more, deeper and more fierce, until a more trivial need made them pull back to simply breathe again.

"And I like arguing with you," Illya added, the rumble low, vibrating through Napoleon. "Cowboy."

It had him laugh. Open. Freely. "I like that, too, Peril."

"She doesn't."

"Carmichael?"

"He is a tool."

"No argument from me."

"She needs him to function and nothing else."

"Hm. Maybe she is good in bed. Or he is."

Illya huffed a little laugh. "Don't care."

He leaned in and kissed Napoleon again, clear intent broadcasting over the anchor line.

"How about we take this to a nicer place? Bed?" Napoleon suggested.

It was a good suggestion.

A very good one.

Dinner could wait.

 

*

 

Touching the fingers of the lax hand attached to the arm so possessively around his waist, Napoleon caressed the long digits.

Strong fingers. Perfectly proportioned. Broad palms. Strength in every muscle. Those fingers could be so careful, gentle, intimate.

It got him a sleepy huff. It was proof to his trust, his total ease, that Illya didn’t wake, ready to fight. There were enough weapons hidden around the bed for both men to jump into action.

He enjoyed those quiet moments, able to study the naked man beside him. The blond hair was in wild disarray, the faint stubble quite sexy, and all that naked skin radiated more warmth than a normal human being should.

He enjoyed it.

Napoleon peered at the smooth, innocent features. Young. Only the scar at his eye marring the unblemished skin.

"I love you," he murmured.

Illya slept on, the anchor line calm and even. Totally at peace.

Napoleon smiled and closed his eyes again, letting the warm presence of his Sentinel pull him back into the depth of sleep. It was peaceful. So very peaceful. Despite all the pain and rage and loss and anger, it was what had Napoleon relax completely.

 

tbc...


	17. Chapter 17

Illya had taken to the pool. Where Napoleon would normally sit at the pool’s excellent bar, chat with the female bar keeper, would have sought companionship for the night in the past, his Russian colleague and Sentinel was carving through the water with determined strokes. He had yet to slow down and Napoleon was mesmerized by the play of muscle in the water, by the smooth moves, by how easy it looked.

He knew it wasn’t.

Water was a bitch.

Solo himself was no slacker in regards to physical fitness. It came with the job description that he had to be fit enough to run, jump, climb, pull sometimes more than his weight, and move nimbly.

Illya, for all his 6’5” was incredibly agile and that wasn’t just the flirty way to say he was good in bed. That he was, too. But he was enduring, fast, strong and moved with more speed than anyone his size should.

He was also a strong swimmer.

“Early morning sports?”

Gaby slid onto the empty stool beside him and Napoleon gave her a quizzical look. She nodded at the streak in the water.

“Didn’t tire him out last night?” she teased.

Napoleon chuckled. “Wouldn’t you want to know?”

“I have my imagination, Solo. I know what bonded pairs are up to. And before you protest, I also know what you were always up to before Illya here made you an honest man.”

He almost spit out his fruity drink. Gaby’s expression was one of mercilessly teasing humor.

“Anything else you want?” he asked.

Gaby had dropped by after the whole Carmichael-Daniels encounter on her way back from a solo mission. She had been highly amused when she had heard about Daniels getting almost strangled by Illya.

"Idiot," had been her only comment.

All three agents had gone out for dinner last night and Napoleon had been happy to have Gaby with them again. They worked well as a team and nothing had changed. It had been a pleasant evening, the three of them enjoying their meals, topped off with a club visit.

While Illya wasn't too comfortable in clubs and regularly had to decline invitations by the ladies, Napoleon was in his element and played his charm to the fullest.

"See it as a training exercise," he had told Illya. "You don't have to take them home with you. Just flirt a little."

"I do not flirt," Illya had grumbled. "Not for show."

"Pretend it's a mission."

"Is not mission."

"They like the mysterious, tall Russian, Peril." Napoleon had winked. "Like I said, you don't have to let it go any further."

Gaby had taken mercy on him, played his escort for the night. Napoleon had left several disappointed ladies in his wake when he hadn't followed up on their sometimes very clear invitations for a night of enjoyment.

They had returned late, or early, depending on interpretation, and Napoleon had slept in late. Illya had been up too early, drawing muttered protests.

“Just to let you know I’ll be leaving at noon for Monaco," Gaby informed him now. "You two are expected in Brussels by the end of the week.”

Napoleon sighed. “Why do you always get the fun places, Miss Teller?”

She shot him an amused look. “Because I’m a good girl, Solo. Think about it.”

"Your definition of a good girl differs greatly from mine."

"I knew you weren't a good boy the moment you stepped into my garage," she replied sweetly. She placed her glass onto the bar and slid off the stool. “Take care. And be careful.”

“Always are.”

"Enjoy the rest of your stay. Knowing you, I know you will." She smiled suggestively, eyes sliding over to the pool. "Tell Illya I'll see him at the office."

Napoleon gave her a smirk. "I will."

He watched her go. He knew Monaco was an easy job. Deliver a package, pick up some intel. Brussels would be the nitty-gritty stuff. More up Illya’s alley, but Napoleon would tag along. Well, more than tag along, really. He was the back-up this time.

The bar tender placed a new drink in front of him and Napoleon gave her a charming smile. She responded with one of her own, then turned to serve a drink to another guest.

A few months ago he would have worked on flirting with her, maybe inviting her for dinner and drinks after her shift today.

Well, he was an honest man now.

Napoleon almost laughed.

At least he was monogamous. He was bonded. And he didn't really miss not charming whoever caught his fancy into a night with him.

Only if the mission required it.

Illya pushing himself out of the pool derailed his thoughts. Water cascade down the tall, broad-shouldered form.

That man’s physique was downright illegal. Those muscles, barely an ounce of fat, the perfect proportions… all quickly disappearing underneath a bathrobe, much to Napoleon’s regret. Then again, he could look at it all to his heart’s content in the privacy of their room – after sweeping it for bugs.

Damn, he had it bad, he decided, downing the drink.

His Sentinel was… perfect. In so many ways. Napoleon had no idea what it was, but the attraction was unbroken. He loved him, he wanted him, and he couldn't think of a moment when he didn't feel that intense connection. He wasn't some horny teenager, he didn't want to jump his partner all the time, but there was an attraction and it wasn't just sex.

Illya had left the pool area without truly acknowledging him, but the bond hummed between them. His Sentinel had been acutely aware of everything going on around him. It was how agents functioned. Always on their toes, always hyper-aware of their surroundings. He had taken the private elevator that connected the suites with the pool area.

Napoleon strolled through the wide lobby, took in the guests coming and going, the security personnel unobtrusively watching everyone from the background, the bellboys waiting for work, the waitresses flitting around the table to serve drinks. He slipped into the elevator and pushed a random floor, got out, took the stairs down two levels, then proceeded into the next elevator to get to the correct floor.

Illya was already there, freshly showered, just a towel around his hips, drying his hair. Napoleon groaned and shook his head.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re doing this on purpose, Peril!” he complained.

The confused look proved him correct in his assumptions.

Napoleon stopped in front of the man, reining in his desire, eyes sliding down the warm body, the scent of the hotel's exclusive shampoo lingering around him. Even in the face of such temptation, he was a professional. He didn’t just jump anyone, even his Sentinel; even now. His very attractive Sentinel, who looked cute in his confusion. Like a puppy.

Damn, it was hard.

He pushed those thoughts away.

Suddenly Illya’s face shifted into an expression of understanding and he smiled. A gentle knock against Napoleon’s shields had the American raise an eyebrow.

“Sometimes you are too polite for words, Peril.”

“I am not a caveman.”

Napoleon skipped his fingers along the edge of the towel. He looked almost contemplative. “No, you’re not.”

Illya kissed his brow, the gesture so unexpected, so strangely intimate, it had the other man’s thoughts stumble to a hold.

His Sentinel could do that to him. Such small gestures that Napoleon didn't expect from the other agent. Illya wrapped his bare arms around him, burying his face in Napoleon’s hair.

Sentinel moment.

Okay. That he could do with such ease, it was frightening.

Napoleon let himself fall into the contact, opened up, let the blond envelop him. It was so rare for Illya to behave like a Sentinel, it was always a privilege, a show of trust.

His work, Napoleon thought proudly.

 

 

And somehow it was just as hot as a roll between the sheets.

Which came later.

After all, he was following Gaby's advice to take advantage of their luxurious lodgings. To the fullest.

 

* * *

 

They had a week of reprieve, which meant office hours. U.N.C.L.E.'s new headquarters had moved to New York, much to Napoleon's delight and Illya's neutral glaring. Not that it really mattered for either man.

They shared a Spartan office that held nothing but two desks with chairs, a potted plant and filing cabinets. The plant had been Gaby's office warming present after Illya had bought her flowers.

It had been so… Illya, Napoleon had decided back then. Flowers for the lady on the team. It had been sweet.

Despite the little plant, Napoleon found the office lacking a certain charm. The walls were drab, the furniture government issue, and instead of maybe a few nice posters, there were maps, as well as three clocks depicting different time zones.

Illya simply remarked that it was like the KGB just with better heating.

While not on an assignment, Illya dutifully typed up his reports and filed them, while Napoleon happily spent most of his time in the Research & Development department in the basement. R&D was small, still growing, like the whole organization, but it had some interesting toys and the latest in technology. They had spread out over the whole basement, two levels deeper than a normal basement, and secured.

The Sentinel always found his partner either admiring a new weapon or actively trying his skills at the various safe models. It was entertaining to watch Solo go at a new challenge. The smartass was gone, the agent was fully concentrating on his work, using his own gear or that supplied by the scientists.

Usually his own worked best.

Some new models put up a fight, but in the end Napoleon found a way to get to it. He studied the locking mechanisms in detail, the alarms, every bolt, screw and plate. There was always a look of fierce concentration, of a professional at work filing everything away for later, when he might need it.

Illya knew he relied on his partner's lock-picking skills, the safe-cracking, the ability to get into almost everything and everywhere. And to lift a wallet, a key, a piece of paper, a passport or whatever else they needed off someone. Where he was the muscle, Solo was the man for the finer arts. Illya had no illusions about his own lock-picking skills. It had been proven to him in Rome. Months ago.

Napoleon was always happy to steal. It gave him a thrill. It was an artist at work and he was damn good.

And he knew.

Illya finished the last report, put it in the appropriate folder, then shoved the drawer shut. He stretched, feeling his spine crack.

Time for some training.

 

 

The Sentinel used U.N.C.L.E.'s gym for the week they were working only in their office, boxing, running timed laps, pushing weights.

Now and then he found a sparring partner. Usually a trainer or one of the senior agents with fighting experience. It was a challenge now and again, and Illya relished it.

Sometimes Napoleon watched, smiling, looking appreciatively at his Sentinel.

"You just watching or ready to fight?" Illya challenged him on one such occasion.

He was in black sweatpants and a t-shirt, stretching tightly across his chest, and his hands were wrapped up to avoid too much bruising. Napoleon had seen agents limp away from training rounds with the blond. He couldn't even pity them. They had gone into this with eyes wide open. No one underestimated the Sentinel.

He held up both hands. "Not today. Beat up the other guys."

"I would never beat you up, Cowboy."

"Just wipe the floor with me, I know. Still no," he declined again, leaning against the gym's wall. "I think you can find many volunteers from among the others."

Illya chuckled and started to unwrap his hands. "They never give up."

"You are teaching them, Peril. Never underestimate the driving force of a lost fight."

"Makes them better, sharper."

"I will go for run," Illya decided, raising his eyebrows in invitation.

Napoleon looked thoughtful for a moment, then nodded. That he could do. Running was something he did easily. Illya's eyes lit up with the knowledge that the other man was coming along.

 

*

 

Gaby took part in regular self-defense lessons, either with one of the agency's trainers or a colleague with more experience. She wasn't the damsel in distress and could hold up in a fight, but she was a light-weight and she needed to learn tricks to hold up to stronger opponents.

Also, her fighting style was more of an alley brawl. She needed to learn to block and counter, use an opponent's strength against them, and how to free herself.

Illya had been reluctant to be a sparring partner, despite their little wrestling match in Rome. That had taken him by surprise and he had never felt threatened, he had told her.

And it was rather impossible to bring the taller, heavier and much more experienced man down onto the mat.

Gaby saw it as a challenge that she had accepted and would master.

So she learned Judo first. She hit the weights room to strengthen her muscles. She started to run for endurance.

And she hated it all.

 

 

It was throughout one of the gym sessions she witnessed an extremely rare event: an intimate moment between her two most favorite U.N.C.L.E. agents.

She had seen them both worried about the other. She had seen them exchange brief, private looks. Yes, she knew they were very much an item.

But they never touched unless by accident, and they had never kissed with her around.

They weren't a typical Sentinel-Guide pair, so touch was non-existent even when Illya was working with his senses. Gaby had never personally met another team, had only heard about normal behavior for such pairs, and her two team mates didn't show even a little bit of that.

And what happened behind closed doors was private and always would be.

Now she saw something that had warmth blossom in her chest and Gaby smiled involuntarily.

Illya was leaning against the wall, Napoleon in front of him, and they were kissing. Soft, gentle, searching, with no hurry. It wasn't a kiss that lead to dry humping or tearing each other's clothes off. It was just… contact.

Illya's hands were splayed against Napoleon's side and on his back, moving in calm caresses. One of Napoleon's hands was flat against the wall, the other clenching against Illya's hips.

They were absorbed in the loving exchange, eyes closed, their bodies relaxed, at ease, completely in synch with each other.

It was beautiful.

The most beautiful thing she had ever seen.

Gaby couldn't tear her eyes away.

Sentinel and not-Guide.

She felt protective of them, would do whatever it took to keep them safe. Like they would do the same when it came to her.

Gaby had never felt like a third wheel, knew the three of them worked perfectly well together, like a well-oiled machine. She always enjoyed their missions, wherever they went, whatever their mission was.

Illya made a noise that was a mixture of a hum and a sigh. Napoleon's lips curved into a smile and he nipped at the lower lip, the blond's eyes opening. The teasing light was clear to see. The smile and the soft huff of laughter was so private, so intimate, Gaby knew it was time to go.

She moved silently away, heading for the showers, the warm feeling still there, making her smile.

 

 

Napoleon walked into her office about two hours later, freshly showered, looking like off the pages of a magazine. Elegant, self-assured, suave, and the charming smile was barely distracting from how well-tailored the suit was.

She looked expectantly at him. "Solo."

"Gaby."

Alarm bells rang.

He placed a folder onto her desk, the smile still there. "I ran into Waverly. He asked me to give you this."

"How… nice."

"It was on my way."

"Right."

"And I just wanted to make sure you weren't scandalized."

Gaby gave him her sweetest smile. There was no guilt, no embarrassment, no stuttering as she replied, "Since you still had all your clothes on, no."

He chuckled. "You should have waited a little longer."

She tilted her head. "Like either of you would be caught making out in a public room, Solo. You are too careful for that, though Sentinels and Guides are usually excused. Then again, you two might have started a riot."

Napoleon smirked.

"And I thought the two of you were cute. So, Sentinel moment?"

Because it was a semi-public area and those two were really extremely careful.

"More like a Guide moment, if you have to know," he answered truthfully.

It was surprising and then again, not. They had never lied to her.

She nodded.

And of course the Sentinel had been aware of her, or anyone else close by.

"We're also not cute," Solo added.

"Oh, you are. Extremely."

Because she could see how close they were, how deeply they felt. She understood that this wasn't some forced bond between two receptives, born out of necessity. It was a connection between two men who had found what each of them needed in the other. They were so different, but they complemented… completed… each other.

Gaby had seen it on missions, when they were in the office, when they were in private, just sharing a drink or having coffee.

Napoleon Solo, the renowned womanizer and playboy, had found everything he needed in Illya Kuryakin. And he had become his Shield.

Gaby understood.

"Would you prefer adorable, Solo?"

He lightly shook his head with a long-suffering look. "You read too much, Teller."

"I don't need a book. I have the read life version of every romance novel right here," she teased. She chuckled at his look and tapped her fingers against the file. "Thank you for playing delivery boy."

"You are very welcome."

Napoleon walked out the office with a last wink.

She stood by her words. Cute. Adorable. Loveable.

Both of them.

Extremely!

 

tbc...


	18. Chapter 18

Then came a retrieval mission in Edinburgh. It was where they met another Sentinel-Guide pair, working for British Intelligence. The mission was tedious, boring, consisting mostly of sitting in the dark, watching their suspects, making note of who came and went.

Sarah Moffett, the local-born Guide, and her Sentinel, a former FBI operative by the name of Tim Martin, had given both operatives a run-down. They were after an unknown man or woman who was hiring young female and male students as exclusive escorts. The escorts would then be pressured into setting up certain marks for a kill.

Amateur assassins, Moffett had called them. Two had been arrested and were currently in prison. Another had taken her life.

So they were looking for the person behind the operation, the actual hit man. Since Martin had already been burned and Moffett couldn't operate on her own, U.N.C.L.E. had offered to help.

 

 

Napoleon found that Sarah was more of a bookish librarian than an agent. She was a red-head, nice on the eye, not outstandingly beautiful, pale-skinned, and elegant if she wanted to be. She dressed conservatively, never showing more skin than necessary, and hiding behind glasses and folders.

"You were a librarian before you met your Sentinel?" Napoleon asked one night as they sat in a hotel bar, watching their mark flirt, very badly, with a woman not far away.

Illya and Gaby were currently outside in the lobby, the Russian reading a paper. They would take over when the mark, Thomas DeColl, left. Martin, Sarah's Sentinel, was outside in a car, listening in.

Sarah gave him a suffering look. "You can tell, right?"

Napoleon shrugged elegantly and sipped at his drink. "You might just be a very good undercover agent."

"Oh, I'm not. I was a librarian," Sarah sighed. "I worked for the FBI. That's where I met Tim. It was… unexpected. I mean, I knew I what I was, but I never thought of finding a Sentinel."

"Why?" he asked, curious.

"I tested strongly," Sarah told him, eyes roaming the bar, never resting too long on anyone. "B-level. I just never clicked, for various reasons. They even tried to set me up with a military Sentinel, but it was just wrong. I was better teaching and researching than anything else. I mean, I knew every technique inside out. I was a pro. I can recite every piece of Sentinel-Guide information, but I never managed to work with anyone for more than surface bonds."

"Until Tim."

She nodded and a little smile flitted over her lips. "I'm not sure who was surprised more. I mean, he's an FBI agent. He was a cop. He's really good at his job and I'm… just a librarian and sometimes the emergency Guide for a Sentinel in need. Suddenly I was his match. They sent me through basic training and it was hell."

Napoleon chuckled. "But you qualified for a gun."

Sarah grimaced. "I could shoot straight. Right away. They told me I had talent. Came as a shock."

Solo glanced at DeColl, who had had no luck with his flirting and was by now looking for someone else. His eyes fell on Gaby, who was walking into the bar with the bored expression of a woman who had everything and found her life lacking a thrill. She was dressed in a simple but hideously expensive dress, showing off skin and jewelry.

The mark's eyes settled on her and interest sparked.

They both watched as he started to try his very bad flirting at Gaby. She reacted with delighted giggling, leaning closer, whispering something.

"Bonds form in the most unconventional ways," Moffett said as she emptied her soda, keen eyes on the events around her. "Sometimes when you least expect them."

Napoleon met her knowing eyes and put on a charming, insincerely playful smile. He refused to be baited into sharing his life's story.

"Yes, they do."

They got up from their table as it became clear that DeColl and Gaby were about to leave.

"Peril, you're up," Solo murmured.

He and Sarah parted ways. She got into the car with her Sentinel, Napoleon walked into the opposite direction, his own part of the mission to take care.

 

*

 

Getting shot hadn't been the plan.

Actually, the plan had been for Napoleon to break into the office of Thomas DeColl, crack the safe, grab the data carriers they knew were stored there, and get out.

Simple.

Nothing of that involved physical harm, though maybe brawling with a security guard might have happened.

The shot was well-aimed and hit Napoleon high in the back, in the shoulder. He felt the piece of hot metal enter, surprise registering in his mind. As with every injury that comes unexpected, there is a grace period and for several minutes there would be no pain.

Good.

Napoleon shifted the weapon from right to left without hesitating, not the least bit handicapped by using another hand, and aimed for the shooter. The man went down with a hole in his chest. He had been one of the hired help.

He had been expected.

"You really think I'd let you steal my things?"

The voice held a mocking tone and Napoleon raised his brows, suppressing an annoyed sigh.

They should have known.

Brandon Rory, DeColl's business partner and apparently partner in crime. The man had initially checked out, though he had never been completely off their radar. He owned several night clubs all over the British Isles, had money to burn.

The man sounded absolutely full of himself, secure in the knowledge that he had Napoleon where he wanted him.

Well, it was good to be unpredictable.

It was even better when he had what he had come looking for already.

Time to leave.

 

 

Hitting the ground, shoulder jarring painfully, Napoleon took off running. He had studied all escape routes when they had planned the theft, including the guard dogs. He vaulted the fence, suppressing a cry, and was only too glad when he heard the familiar popping or a gun going off with a silencer not too far from his left.

Even without opening the bond, he knew it was Illya.

He kept running, the pain in his shoulder getting worse.

It was just a shot wound, but it burned like nothing had ever before. He felt dizzy, already out of breath, and he was starting to sweat.

Something tripped him and he went down.

Hard.

Rolling instinctively not to hit the ground first with his bad shoulder.

Failing.

He saw white lights explode in front of his eyes. His breath stuttered and he groaned. The pain was like a white-hot fire and he tried not to scream.

Damn, damn, damn!

A hand closed around his arm, pulling him up, and the bond flared with the presence of his Sentinel, enveloping him.

Napoleon was dragged along, running on automatic, every step pulsing through the wound. Blood was running down his arm, his body. Sticky. Warm. Continuously.

His legs tangled, his whole body fighting every move, every breath.

"Car," Illya suddenly growled and then he was on the back seat of their escape vehicle.

Everything hurt.

Breathing hurt.

Thinking hurt.

Things blurred after that, graying a little, and the noise was dying down. He knew he was going into shock.

And then there was nothing anymore.

 

*

 

For the first time in her life Gaby Teller wished she had at least a rudimentary talent as a Guide.

"He'll be okay," she said, small hands brushing over Illya's arm.

"He was still bleeding."

"They'll take good care of him."

"Still. Bleeding," he repeated.

Gaby inhaled shakily. She had seen the large stain in the back of the car, the soaked clothes. Illya had applied pressure, had managed a rudimentary tourniquet, but Napoleon had kept bleeding.

She squeezed his arm.

Napoleon would be okay.

She knew it.

She prayed for it.

"Can I help?" she asked softly. "In any way?"

Illya's eyes suddenly softened, the smile touching his lips barely there, but Gaby saw it.

"No. Thank you," he answered. "I am good."

Not fine. Not okay. Just… good. In control. So very much in control. Gaby was reminded of the Illya Kuryakin who had been chasing after them in East Berlin.

"Illya…"

He shook his head.

Gaby sighed. She understood. This wasn't just an injured partner. This was Napoleon, his not-Guide, someone he had an intimate relationship with. They had more than a physical connection. This was something on a psychic level, a bond no one but another Sentinel or Guide could understand.

She would be there for him in any way he let her.

"You want a coffee? Tea? Something to eat?"

Illya shook his head.

Gaby squared her shoulders and decided she needed a coffee. Then she would see what she could glean information-wise. She needed to call Waverly.

 

 

When she left the private room, a doctor nodded at her. Gaby had been introduced to him. He worked for U.N.C.L.E. and was apparently a receptive, meaning a low-level empath. Not a Guide. Adam Hunt, she remembered.

“Miss Teller.” He held out a file folder.

Gaby took it and found the bullet that had been removed from Solo in a plastic bag, attached to a sheet of paper.

There was a little blood on it.

“He is still in surgery. The bleeding is troubling us. My colleague is cleaning the wound, but I wanted to give you this.”

She nodded. “Thank you.”

Hunt glanced at the private room. “He is Agent Solo’s Sentinel?”

“Agent Solo is not a Guide,” she replied automatically.

Hunt’s brows lowered and his eyes narrowed. “He is radiating all over the place,” he said carefully. “Extremely. I’m not talented enough to pick up on Sentinels, normally. In Agent Kuryakin’s case… it’s like a warning not to touch, to look or even talk to him.”

Gaby’s smile was tight, without humor. “Apt description. He is worried.”

Hunt slowly shook his head. “More than that. Commander Waverly was adamant in his orders concerning your two colleagues. He said to treat them like a bonded pair.” He raised an eyebrow.

Gaby shrugged. “Then do it.”

“But Solo is not the Guide?”

She kept on smiling blandly.

“If he was, the Sentinel would be all over the place, zoning, maybe in need of a sedative. He isn’t.”

Gaby refused to be baited.

He grimaced. “Need to know,” he muttered, making it sound like a curse.

Gaby understood, but she wasn’t inclined to tell anyone Illya or Napoleon hadn’t approved themselves of the true relationship between those two men. Hunt could think all he wanted as long as he adhered to the guidelines set by U.N.C.L.E.

A nurse called his name and he nodded. “I’m needed back in surgery. Until maybe later, Miss Teller.”

And he was gone.

Gaby looked at the bullet, then put the folder into her purse. She had a delivery to make.

 

*

 

Napoleon's eyes blinked open, glassy from the painkillers, and he had trouble focusing. The anesthetics from surgery were weighing him down, making his brain a gray mass of sludge that seemed incapable of holding one coherent thought. He felt extremely disoriented.

At least he felt no pain from his damaged shoulder.

"Hey," the injured man whispered as his eyes focused on Illya. "How come it's always me?"

His Sentinel looked bad. Tense. Drawn. Fatigue visible even to Napoleon's grayed-out gaze.

Ready to snap.

Napoleon wasn't currently running on all cylinders, but he sensed it more than he saw it. For Illya to camp out in his hospital room it meant they were in a facility deemed safe for agents or that Illya had bullied his way into staying here, probably threatening nurses and doctors.

Yeah, Napoleon thought faintly. That sounded about right. Both options.

"Your luck, Cowboy."

"Which is shit."

It got him a little snort. Illya's fingers ghosted over the hand closest to him. A tape held an IV in place. Napoleon's fingers curled lightly around his.

"'parently."

"You'll be fine."

"'kay."

"If the doctors give permission, you can leave tomorrow."

"'kay. Where?"

The Sentinel kept brushing feather light finger tips over the pale, cool skin. "Glasgow. You are safe here. Rest."

He sounded calm. Too calm. Napoleon felt slivers of alarm, but his exhausted body couldn't react to the too level voice that hid the rage his Sentinel was feeling.

Napoleon felt it.

Just an echo, even if Illya suppressed his emotions, was coming across the anchor. Napoleon was tired, weak, his shields wavering, but they were still strong enough to withstand whatever Kuryakin was firing at him.

Unconsciously.

Illya wasn't trying to hurt his Shield. He was simply pushing the emotions he didn't express on the outside toward the anchor.

"You too," Napoleon murmured. "Sleep. Please."

The caresses never stopped. Illya smiled softly. Blurry around the edges, looking so far away.

Solo blinked, slightly confused.

And he dropped off to sleep again.

 

 

Get rest. Yes. Good advice.

Illya exhaled, unable to release the tension in him. Napoleon had nearly been killed. They had been waiting for him. The whole mission had gone bad within minutes.

They had been compromised and DeColl was in the wind. The other team was after him and Gaby had joined them, determined to bring the man down. The shooter had been identified. Agent Martin had tracked down a young woman, an Olympic sharp-shooter of all people, who had been blackmailed into making the shot.

Illya wanted to hurt her, as much as she had his Shield, but another part, the human side, knew she had been just as much of a victim. She was currently in U.N.C.L.E. custody and would be interrogated.

He didn't care.

Napoleon was his priority right now, even though as an agent he should be out there, hunting their target.

Illya expelled another breath.

His weakness. His liability. And his strength.

Napoleon's injury hadn't looked so bad in the beginning, but his Shield had been almost bleeding out from an injury that shouldn't have been so crippling.

They had put several units of blood into him.

Illya had been close to tearing something apart, but he hadn't.

Control.

He had control. Over both his sides, the human and the Sentinel.

He closed his eyes, centering himself on the anchor. It was such an amazing feeling, this calm, this warmth of the other man’s presence. It helped so very much, took the brunt of his anger, even while Napoleon was sleeping.

His Shield.

Illya smiled faintly, watching the other man. He listened to his breathing, to his heart beating.

Napoleon was okay. He would be released soon, into his care, and Illya would do everything to make sure he would heal. The need to kill hadn’t abated, but it was bearable. He could work with that, could interact with others without tearing anything apart.

“Thank you,” he whispered to no one in specific.

 

tbc...


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Due to Real Life interfering this chapter got a little shorter than most others. More the next time...

It took Martin and Moffett no more than a day to bring in DeColl and even less to make him talk. Rory was already on everyone's list and he was caught at the airport, trying to fly out with his own jet plane.

Illya knew he had failed in his mission, that both he and Napoleon had failed. Part of him was appalled. He knew failure was frowned upon and as a KGB agent it would have meant punishment.

He wasn't KGB any longer.

The training and the sliver of fear remained.

Napoleon had stayed longer than a day in hospital, regaining his strength, shaking off the effects of the pain medication, and starting to complain on day two. Always a good sign.

Still, it had been serious. He had lost too much blood and the doctors weren't happy that he wanted to go home. He was easily tired, too pale, too weak.

It was one reason why Illya wanted him out of the publically accessible hospital. He needed to know his not-Guide was safe, that he could protect him. He had been climbing the walls, feeling like a caged animal, all his senses dialed up high and on constant guard. He knew it wasn’t healthy, but it was all he could do at the moment.

Watch doctors and nurses like a hawk, check and recheck medication, IVs and food.

Protect his partner.

Napoleon had been mostly asleep for the first twenty-four hours, drifting in and out, answering questions from the doctors with sleepy annoyance.

Gaby had been in and out, had spent some time with the stoic Sentinel, had brought him meals and bottled water. He deemed it safe. She also pestered the U.N.C.L.E. labs to analyze what Napoleon had been shot with. He had lost too much blood from such a rather small caliber entry wound, and he had shown symptoms not associated with being shot.

The second day Napoleon was more awake, complained louder.

So Illya took him to a safehouse after those two days, barely talking, though he felt the need to be in constant contact with his Shield.

"Peril."

The one word made him freeze. Napoleon's voice had dropped a little, the usual teasing gone. He was serious.

"What happened out there?"

"You were shot, Cowboy. You lost a lot of blood."

"Well, yes. Even I can tell." There was a spark of sarcasm there. "What I want to know is what happened after that."

Illya clenched his hands into fists, a rush of anger at himself, at the shooter, at everyone racing through him. It wasn't the rage; still far from it. But it was a brief, volatile explosion.

"Illya."

A noise of frustration and anger caught in the back of his throat.

"Illya," Napoleon repeated patiently.

He looked up. Napoleon was close to him. Pale, a little too gray actually, with dark smudges under his eyes that spoke of the pain and the restless sleep he had gotten the past two days. His body had taken a toll and was still recovering from the shock of being shot, probably poisoned, and then losing a substantial amount of blood. One arm in a sling, fastened securely to his chest.

And still his eyes were burning with hidden power, with the psychic energy his Shield possessed and only Illya ever felt so completely. It amazed him every time the connection opened up, when Illya was allowed to touch the other man in a way no one else could. Napoleon Solo was incredibly strong, a survivor, tenacious and relentless.

It showed in so many ways.

When Napoleon touched him, it was like a tiny storm breaking lose, sweeping over his mind and soul, uprooting fears and anger. The Sentinel reacted automatically. Maybe it was what a Guide did. Illya had no clue and he didn’t care, because this man was far more an always would be.

"You were shot. I lost control."

"Who did you kill?"

It was such a calm, reasonable question. Illya should be thrown by it, but he wasn't. He reacted to the control, to the calm, Napoleon exuded. He was drawn to that warm center, couldn’t fight it.

"No one. DeColl had already fled." His hands clenched again. "Agent Martin pursued him. With his Guide."

Leaving Illya with a bleeding, unconscious Napoleon to take somewhere safe to be treated. A man who was his not-Guide, who was unresponsive, and whose blood had been all over his Sentinel. The clogging smell alone would have driven any normal person into gagging and nausea. Illya had at first refused to dial down his senses, then had done it to stop himself from throwing up.

He had never stopped tracking the weakening heart beat and the stuttering breaths. It had been his lifeline; it had been like a countdown running down to the moment when everything stopped.

Solo tilted his head, like reading an open book, and Illya had no doubt that he was such a book to him. Right now the puzzled look spoke of more questions.

"You left everything in one piece, killed no one, but you lost control?"

"Yes." Of his humanity.

Something lit up in the blue eyes. "Huh."

The shields between them dropped and the anchor strengthened, pulling Illya close, reeling him in, and he let himself. Closing his eyes, the Sentinel wrapped his arms around his Shield and just… felt.

Again.

He was feeling again.

It was amazing and warmed him like nothing else. It was what he had been missing ever since Napoleon had been gunned down by a sniper, had nearly bled out on the backseat of a car.

"I failed," he rumbled.

"No," Napoleon contradicted.

"The mission… I compromised it."

"Because of me?"

The question was asked lightly, but it had Illya draw back, a million emotions cascading through him. He shook his head, denying what Napoleon so easily voiced.

"It was me," he murmured.

"You are human, Peril."

He had never been before bonding to his Shield. Had never felt like this. Napoleon came first. It was frightening.

Solo smiled, warm and so very real.

"Getting used to it, hm?"

"It is… hard."

"But not impossible. You're doing really well, too. And Waverly won't have your head for leaving the rest of the mission to our colleagues. We did our parts, right down to catching a bullet."

Illya's fingers tightened their hold on his partner. Not hard enough to hurt. Just a little more pressure, a fraction of his true strength. Napoleon cocked his head a little.

"You okay?"

"I will be."

"Good."

Illya reluctantly released the other man, noticing how he was starting to tremble a little. His heartbeat was strong, his breathing was just fine, but he was far from on top of his game. He needed rest, sleep, heal.

"Come," he said, pushing Napoleon to the couch.

He went without complaint, which was telltale.

 

 

Illya stayed with Napoleon until he fell asleep, which was rather quickly. He tracked his vital functions all the time. His senses were completely focused on him, though he was alert for anyone who might approach them.

It was why Gaby was already expected when she knocked on the door before she entered, using the key in her possession. The Sentinel had tracked her movements way ahead of her actual arrival.

"How is he?" she asked quietly.

"Asleep," Illya replied, voice just as soft and low.

She studied him, compassion shining through. "He'll be okay." It was a statement, not simple hope.

Illya nodded. "He will be."

"Waverly says hello. The labs have worked out a prelim on the bullet. It seems it had been treated with a chemical agent, probably something derived from a natural poison that also acted like an anti-coagulant.”

Illya felt the dark rage double. It swooped right against his barriers, pushed and pulled, trying to tear down the walls of his control.

No such luck.

He was still absolutely calm.

“I’ll be looking into where those things came from, who deals with them,” Gaby informed him. “You're off the roster for now. Both of you."

Illya felt something inside of him twist. The failure still are at him.

"Oh, Illya." Gaby shook her head. "This has nothing to do with what happened. Well, in a way, because Solo was shot and you're his Sentinel. Of course you're standing down as long as your partner is recovering."

"We can work separately," he ground out. "He's not a Guide."

"But he is your not-Guide, silly. You aren't just work partners, right?"

He remained silent, not meeting her eyes.

"You love him," Gaby stated calmly.

His head jerked up, the blue eyes narrowing slightly.

"I'm not stupid, Illya. I can see what he means to you and I can see that he feels the same. Solo's a good actor, but not when it comes to you. He really loves you."

"I know," he murmured.

"You worry. It's natural. This was a really close call." She smiled. "He is your Shield, Illya. Your anchor. Think about it."

He didn't really need to. He knew it had been an extremely close call. The lab techs had been fascinated by the bullet.

Illya just wanted to tear the shooter to pieces.

"Now, do you need anything?"

Gaby was all business, eyes tracking through the room, briefly flicking over to the kitchen.

"No. We are good."

She nodded. "I'm meeting Waverly tomorrow in London. Take care. Of yourself. Of him. You hear me?"

Illya nodded and Gaby smiled, then stood on her toes to give him a kiss on the cheek. Illya refused to blush. Gaby smiled more, then she was gone again.

On the table Illya found a folder she had dropped. Mission intel, the already typed up interrogation of DeColl, and more.

He took the papers with him as he sat down, still keeping his senses mostly on Napoleon, who slept on.

 

tbc...


	20. Chapter 20

"You and Agent Kuryakin… you have an unconventional bond for a Sentinel and Guide."

Sarah Moffett gave him a curious look, no judgement in her eyes, her whole persona open and calm.

Perfect Guide, Napoleon thought.

Calm. Inoffensive. Laid back. Her psychic energy was even, without spikes, but she was no pushover either. You couldn't be an agent of any agency without some backbone. You couldn't be a Guide to an active Sentinel in such an agency without true grit.

"What makes you think I'm his Guide?" he asked her pleasantly.

"You're not?"

She drummed neatly trimmed nails against the table top. They had met at the safehouse where Napoleon had recovered for the past days, growing more alert and also more restless. His shoulder was still rather painful and he had a limited range of movement, but he didn't want to be cooped up any longer. Even if he was tiring faster than normal, felt the heavy fatigue as his body still fought the consequences of losing so much blood.

"No, you are not. Not like I am to Tim, but you are, Mr. Solo. I told you, I am a librarian. I know everything about Sentinels and Guides. How they meet. How they respond to a possible match. How the Sentinel starts to act around viable candidates in the process. I'm not a fan of the whole set-up meetings, forcing anyone to accept the other due to necessity. I think it should be a natural process. It takes the strain off the psychic connection, the bond between their minds."

Napoleon found himself smiling at her explanation, about the passion behind those words.

"You two aren't a typical pair, but you are connected. Strongly. It's a bit… off-setting to think of you as Sentinel and Guide and not see the signs. There is almost everything missing, but still there in a different way."

Sarah tilted her head, thoughtful, sharp eyes studying him like Napoleon was a very bothersome specimen that refused to be identified.

Napoleon exhaled softly, catching a glance from Illya, who had slid soundlessly into the room in the last minute. His partner was not quite as unobtrusive as he might think, looming silently in a corner, but he wasn't barging in either. Napoleon felt no stress radiating from him, no threat.

Moffett was no threat.

She had come by, talked about the mission, filled in a few blanks. Her own Sentinel was currently talking to someone from British Intelligence on the phone in the other room.

Solo had expected some more posturing from Illya for some reason, but he had been very laid back, as usual. There had been a brief nod, then nothing at all. Martin, in turn, had left his Guide alone with Napoleon, though there had been a brief touch and reassuring pat from her before he had gotten on the phone.

All in all, Napoleon had decided, everything had worked out quite well, unlike the last time they had had to cooperate with another Sentinel-Guide team. Sure, he had a new scar to add to the collection on his body, and it still ached abominable when he moved the shoulder wrong, but he was out of the hospital, everything stitched up neatly, and they would be on their way home soon. 

"I hate to burst your bubble, Miss Moffett, but I'm not a Guide," he told their guest with a pleasant smile.

She studied him, those gray eyes quite intense. He had only seen that look when she had worked with her Sentinel.

"I'd believe you if I only had a few scraps of evidence, but I don't. You are and you are not, Solo. Just like Mr. Kuryakin is a unique kind of Sentinel. We heard of him. There had been persistent rumors of the KGB employing an Alpha without a Guide. It was a ludicrous idea and whoever heard it said it was a lie. You can't be a fully functional Alpha without an A-level Guide. They said he had never bonded and was working on his own, successfully, without zoning. Tim once said the KGB bred them like that, but he's not the typical KGB Sentinel. He's not typical anything."

Napoleon didn't see it, but he felt Illya shift, his attention focusing more on the female Guide. He brushed along the anchor bond without dropping his shields and found it calm and even. This was mere curiosity from his Sentinel's side. There was no aggression, no perceived threat.

Sarah nibbled on her lower lip. On anyone else it would be a seductive move, but Sarah Moffett didn't do seductive.

Now she held up a finger, starting to count. "Tim got little to no sense of him. Like he's not really there. He's A-level. He should be broadcasting it to any other Sentinel. Especially as the Alpha that he is. As a Guide I should be catch a whiff of him, too, but I didn't. He's… shielded. Barely there. I know that would look like a low-level to anyone else, but Mr. Kuryakin is far from it. At first glance you would dismiss him. Second glance, too. And then, when you work with him, you know something is off."

Napoleon stayed silent.

A second finger went up.

"You were shot. You were seriously injured, bleeding, fell unconscious. A Sentinel, not matter the classification, would go into full protective mode to save their Guide. It's dangerous on missions, in the field, which is why psych evals and special training is considered vital." Sarah looked at him, eyes meeting Napoleon's, demeanor serious. "No training can keep the emotions completely at bay when a Guide is injured like you were. The trained military Sentinel can function, won't lose it right away, won't go into feral mode, but Agent Kuryakin was in absolute control. He never so much as showed a single emotion. It was as if he wasn't even connected to you."

"Another point in my favor of not being a Guide," Napoleon stated mildly.

"Yes, it seems like it. He relinquished control over you to the medical personnel, though he hovered. That can be attested to worry." Sarah glanced at the man in question, then looked at Napoleon again. "You were briefed about us, Agent Solo. What my file doesn't mention is that before I met Tim, I was considered a universal receptive."

She raised an eyebrow, gauging his reaction, asking if Napoleon knew what she was.

"Universal," he nodded. "Capable of helping any Sentinel out of a zone, establishing surface bonds. Commonly found in medical facilities dealing with Sentinels. You can read them very well."

Moffett nodded, looking pleased. Like a teacher and her star pupil. "Until I met Tim. That's when the universal Guide is, for lack of a better word, deactivated. I became his Guide, can't surface bond to others."

There was a trace of pride and warmth. Napoleon wouldn't call them lovers, but there was affection and while Martin wasn't the demonstrative kind, he did like his Guide a lot more than as just a partner.

"I still pertain my ability to sense another Sentinel's distress to a certain level. All Guides are receptive, but not many as deeply as the universal ones. Your partner was… not distressed. He was under such iron control, I expected it to break, for him to blow up in someone's face, but he didn't. He was firm, he didn't take no for an answer when the doctor told him to leave you." Sarah shrugged. "That, too, can be attributed to a worried partner."

Napoleon gave a one shoulder shrug himself. "What can I say? KGB. And while we're good friends and partners, Peril's contained in himself. He never had a Guide, he never had a zone in his life. He doesn't need me."

"Oh, he does," Sarah contradicted with a wide smile. "You are his protection. You make him fade away."

He blinked, keeping his face otherwise completely pleasant and open. "I beg your pardon?"

Tension radiated from Illya, but he didn't move.

"Like I said, I read a lot." She pushed up her glasses for emphasis. "You, Napoleon Solo, are a Shield. You make your Sentinel disappear. That's… power. And you are already invisible."

Napoleon said nothing.

"Your own shields make you invisible to those looking for latent or dormant Guides. You hide behind walls that you weren't aware of. Shields are severely under-represented, mostly because they are difficult to identify."

"You do read a lot," he commented.

"It passes the time on stake-outs," she replied with a smile.

He felt Illya's presence close by, though his partner still hadn't moved a muscle so far, and he reached out toward the black tendrils that curled around the anchor bond, wrapping his fingers into the writhing mass of silky coolness.

Sarah smiled all of a sudden.

"You… sensed that?"

"I'm sensitive, remember? And right now your Sentinel feels threatened, so he… projects. Against your shields, yes, but it's there." Sarah glanced at the tall blond. "Tim would be hovering to a nauseating level, protective, snarling, a nightmare. Agent Kuryakin is, too… in his very own way. Laid back, I'd say. Controlled. I couldn't classify him if I tried, couldn't get more than a few meagre spikes, but he's completely focused on you, Mr. Solo. His partner."

He had to chew on that.

"Are we that obvious?" Napoleon asked with a tilt of his head, curiosity rising.

"Not in a compromising way. It's this measure of control I envy, in a way. You work seamlessly in the field. I've seen you. You don't need verbal communication and you take your cues off each other's body language. I've never seen you touch him, Agent Solo, which is extremely disconcerting when I keep thinking of you as his Guide."

Napoleon shook his head with a fine smile. "Which I'm not."

She inclined her head. "Which you are not. So you're not obvious as a Sentinel-Guide team. Now even less because no one can truly identify him as a Sentinel. On a personal level I can only draw form Tim and my relationship. Compared to us after I got stabbed on a mission, your relationship could be categorized as glacial."

Napoleon chuckled. "Glacial, huh?"

Illya was that dark, looming wave in his mind, rumbling and twisting, wanting to be close, restraining himself physically and refusing to give in mentally.

Sarah shared his smile.

Yes, theirs wasn't a normal bond. It was so irregular, so unconventional, it shouldn't even exist.

"Have you ever seen your spirit animals?"

He froze.

Sarah furrowed her brow a little. "You haven't? I thought a strong pair like you would have seen them by now."

Napoleon shot his partner a quizzical look, the first eye contact made ever since Sarah and he had started talking.

"Peril?"

He gave a shake of his head.

"Oh," she murmured.

Napoleon's brows furrowed. Had he? That shadowy thing with the fox tail came to mind.

"They normally materialize in times of extreme emotional stress for the very first time."

"Ah."

"And after that they just… walk in and out of your lives." Sarah smiled warmly. "You might have a different approach here, too."

Or he had never been able to focus on the spirit animal. Only the shadows, the vague shapes, the suspicions of a presence. Illya had never mentioned anything either.

Agent Martin was suddenly there, clearly scanning them, his eyes resting a fraction of second longer on his Guide. Then his gaze swiveled briefly to Illya, who was still the silent shadow in the background. Unobtrusive but not invisible.

It took barely two or three seconds.

Napoleon fractionally opened the shields and didn't so much as smirk when Martin was hit with a little more that was Illya Kuryakin. The expression in his eyes was devilish, though.

Then he cracked them open even more before sealing up their bond once more.

Sarah suddenly grinned impishly and reached out for her Sentinel, patting his hand. The contact relaxed him visibly and she left her hand on his exposed skin for a moment longer, watching Martin for whatever signs only she knew.

"Hell…" the other man breathed.

Sarah rose and nodded at Napoleon, still smiling, her eyes outright laughing.

"It was nice working with you, Agent Solo." Another nod at Illya. "Agent Kuryakin. Take care of him."

Illya only raised his brows at the ridiculous advice. Of course he would take care of his partner.

"He's a Shield, Tim," Moffett told her Sentinel as she firmly pushed him away. "And he's showing off. Now shoo. We have a train to catch. And I'm tired."

Martin looked a bit overrun, then understanding dawned. His eyes darted from Illya to Napoleon and back, brows furrowing.

Napoleon grinned at the pair. It had been clear from the start that Sarah Moffett wasn't the silent type, the Guide in the background. She might be a librarian, but she wouldn't step back behind her Sentinel and let him do the talking.

Illya was suddenly there, hovering, and Napoleon glanced at the taller blond. There was a clear warning in his stance. Martin just nodded at the other man, then he and his Guide disappeared. Sarah waved at Napoleon before they turned a corner and were gone.

"I think that's our cue," Solo announced and got up.

Illya shadowed him.

Napoleon stopped and looked up into the chiseled face, brows drawing down. "Peril?"

"I will drive."

He chuckled. "No argument from me."

"That's a first."

Napoleon turned around and almost collided face first with the broad chest. He wrapped his good arm around the Sentinel's waist and gave him a private smile.

"Anything you want?"

"Nothing."

"You sure?"

"Absolutely."

Napoleon lifted his brows suggestively.

Illya didn't so much as smile. Actually, he started to glower.

"You are no fun, Peril."

"That is your opinion, Cowboy. Now we pack."

Napoleon suppressed a sigh when the taller man stepped away. Illya regarded him for a moment, those blue eyes searching, then he closed the distance and leaned down, kissing Napoleon softly.

"We pack," he repeated against the dry lips.

Napoleon's lips curved into a smile.

Time to get home, too.

 

tbc...


	21. Chapter 21

Recovery was a long and tedious affair. The blood loss meant Napoleon was still weak, wobbly on his feet, had to take iron supplements and drink a lot. The bullet wound was an added complication and he needed physical therapy. Rehab was painful and exhausting. He was light-headed most of the time and sometimes had to lean against a wall before he fell down.

Illya was always there with him, silent, supportive – and hovering. A wall of strength, letting Napoleon lean against him, and the psychic energy coming across the bond was incredible. It was sometimes the only thing that kept him going, especially throughout the grueling rehab time.

Sure, Illya scared the therapists, but he was a well of unspoken support and he had his back. In so many ways.

Napoleon wanted to be annoyed, but he was also silently tickled.

He kind of enjoyed himself -- when he wasn't sleeping away half the day after breakfast, because it had tired him out. For a week after getting home it was all he had done: eat, sleep, eat, sleep, try to be up for more than an hour.

It got better after that. He got his mobility back, he could string two coherent thoughts together, and food no longer tasted bland.

Illya never changed. His pitbull of a bodyguard, the worry wart.

 

 

Any kind of strenuous activity was frowned upon. Not that Napoleon had anything to give in those first days after he got home. He was too tired to even shave properly, let alone make an effort to dress in more than loose clothes that he normally wouldn’t be caught dead in.

Illya gave him a sharp look just once, when he tried to put on more representable clothes and ended up dizzy, leaning against the wall, trying not to keel over.

After that, and since it was only them most of the time, he forewent the outfits.

It was actually quite nice. Leisurely. Almost too domestic to take, Napoleon mused. Illya’s cooking skills were rather simple, but the food tasted really good. Napoleon enjoyed it, the calm and quiet atmosphere, though both men hadn’t lost their edge.

Checking for bugs was normal and always would be. Just like checking for possible observers, tails and cameras.

It was their life.

 

*

 

“Huh.”

Illya looked up from his newspaper. Stretched out on the bed, all lean, long lines and muscles, he was a distracting picture most of the time, but today something else had caught Napoleon’s attention. Though it had taken something quite strange for his attention to wander away from the mostly naked man.

Which was no small feat. Peril was built like a wall, tall, well-proportioned everywhere, and was an all-out attractive package.

One that belonged to Napoleon alone.

Yeah, he could be quite possessive.

And since sex was still out of the questions, aside from some kissing and touching, Napoleon was easily distracted by his Sentinel.

Except now.

“Cowboy?”

The question held a careful undercurrent, probing, ready to switch from playful to serious and battle-ready.

Napoleon’s eyes never strayed from a particular spot of the carpet in their apartment.

“Do you have any pets I don’t know of, Peril?”

He could almost imagine the scowl on the handsome features. “Pets?”

“Gray, black paws, really furry. Extremely so. A puffball of fur. Looks kinda like a fox.”

There was a rustle of paper and then Illya was there, next to him, this irremovable fact in Solo’s life. Steady and still volatile, his own anchor and also the sharpest weapon in anyone’s arsenal. Ever since his near-death experience that fact had been driven home more clearly. The bond had become… more solid.

“Ah,” he rumbled, eyes on the same spot.

“Ah?”

Blue eyes crinkled at the edges as Napoleon turned his head to look at him. Illya didn’t look alarmed, more like genuinely, pleasantly surprised and intrigued.

“Ah,” he echoed. “I thought I had hallucinated it.”

“And you aren’t now?” Solo asked, eyebrows climbing.

“You see it, too, Cowboy.”

“Yeah." Napoleon wrinkled his brow. "Wait. When did you see it?”

“When Vinciguerra beat you with tire iron. Briefly. In the underbrush. I had thought it was… wildlife.”

And the concussion hadn’t helped. He had just crashed the motorbike down a hill. It had landed squarely on him and Illya’s vision had been fading, graying at the edges, only his rage driving him on.

Napoleon chewed on his lower lip, then nodded. “So… it’s real?”

“No.”

“Huh.”

“It is a spirit animal.”

Napoleon blinked, looking at the fluffy fox that sat in the middle of their room, a playful glint in its eyes. If it was definitely a fox, but a truly strange one. He had never seen such a color before. The gray seemed to turn gray-blue in places. There was also a white dot on the back of each ear, only visible when those large ears turned like little radar dishes.

It looked adorable, but also surreal. Like it was fading out around the edges.

“It must be yours,” Illya said casually.

“Mine?!”

The blond just shrugged.

Napoleon had no spirit animal. Never, in all his life.

Then he recalled the shadowy things that had popped in on and off lately. Ever since…

Well, fuck.

He had… a weird fox. He wasn’t a Guide, but he had a spirit animal that looked unlike anything he knew from biology books or zoos.

“You are surprised?"

“Uh, kinda. I…“

“Ah, yes. Not a Guide," Peril just teased, shooting him an almost mischievous look. “Shields have them, too, or so it seems."

And Sentinels. Like Illya.

The fox suddenly yipped, though no real noise escaped him, and Napoleon saw it.

“Holy shit," he breathed.

He had only ever thought he ha seen this. Now it appeared real. Very, very real.

The darkness flowed closer, inky black and dangerous looking, but it wasn’t. Napoleon had never been afraid of it.

Huge paws stepped out of the blackness, coalescing more and more into an animal.

A huge, surreal animal.

Wolfish… Wolf, he thought faintly. But one freakishly strange one. Too large, too massive, too much… simply there. With icy eyes and darkness roiling all over it, tendrils of it wafting around the thing, giving it no clear shape. It towered over the fox, which twisted its head and looked up at the monstrous thing.

It seemed unperturbed.

Actually, it looked quite content. The fox’s tongue lolled and it seemed to grin at the freakish wolf.

The wolfthing glanced at the fox, almost fond, slightly exasperated, and then annoyed when the fox pushed its nose at its jaw. Those jaws opened and dagger-like teeth, too long to be real, showed.

“Yours?"

Illya looked almost contemplative. He didn’t seem to be horrified by the wolfthing, nor alarmed.

“Like you, Cowboy, I never had one. I didn’t believe I could have one. It looks strange."

Solo gave him a wry grin. “Must be yours then, Peril. So what do we do with them?"

“Do?"

Napoleon was at a loss somehow. He had a spirit animal. Some kind of bouncy fluff ball of a fox that snuggled up to a nightmarish creature like it was just another cuddly creature. What did one do with a spirit animal? What use was it?

The wolf gave an inaudible huff and nuzzled against the fox, which looked terribly pleased at that. It leaned against one sturdy leg, a leg that seemed to go in and out of solidity, appearing completely content.

Illya made an intrigued sound, still watching. He stood right behind Napoleon, as always not touching, but he didn’t need to. His presence was like an embrace.

The wolfthing, still more surreal than a fact – unlike its Sentinel, in real life – part of it wispy and flowing, though the huge paws with their long claws looked very real.

As did the golden eyes.

Golden.

Go figure, Napoleon thought.

The wolf curled up, a too smooth move for such a huge animal to make it look natural, and the fox clambered over it, burying in the inky darkness. Its head popped out, the expression smug, and it seemed to laugh at the two men.

Cheeky little thing.

Napoleon grinned.

“So… this is what Sentinels see in their meditations?"

Illya hummed. “Never saw one before now. No meditation."

Right.

Napoleon glanced at his partner, then his eyes drifted back to the unlikely pair of animals. Their spirit animals.

He really needed to read up on some things. Or ask Sarah. Or accept that since both of them were completely out of the norm, their spirit animals were, too.

The shadowy wolfthing suddenly disappeared, the boiling mass of blackness turning into wispy tendrils, flowing like ink in water. The fox playfully snapped its jaws at the tendrils and they seemed to caress the gray animal, teasing and equally playful. The fox rolled onto its back, then did a three-sixty, and bounded around the smoky leftovers of the wolfthing.

Illya huffed a laugh and shook his head. “Is you, Cowboy. Definitely.”

“This doesn’t disturb you just a little bit?" Napoleon asked.

“No."

Right.

Solo stared at the display of the happily bounding fox surrounded by the dark tendrils, and suddenly even that faded away. He felt a momentary surge of alarm, then shook himself.

Not real, he reminded himself. Spirit animals.

And he needed a drink.

 

 

“So… I’m a fox."

Illya bit back a laugh at the expression on Solo’s face. The man was clearly still struggling with the concept of a spirit animal, though the Russian thought it fit his partner perfectly. Not just because foxes were extremely smart and cunning, but also because of the playfulness it had exhibited.

Yes, Napoleon was playful.

Very much so.

The man was a thief and gambler, yes. He was a womanizer, a playboy if he needed to be, charming and suave. It was taught to agents, KGB or CIA. Illya had been on the receiving end of such lessons, but it had never been easy for him. Going through the motions, but still unnatural.

Yes, he had been taught how to bed women and men, but it didn’t come easy to a man like him.

Solo… he was a natural. He didn’t need lessons. This was him, the player, and he adjusted his game on the fly. There was the plan and then there was the way Napoleon executed the seduction.

A true master, fascinating to watch.

But it was a mask. All of it, except that playfulness, that love of life and its good things. That was Napoleon. That smart, witty, and playful man. Complicated, a tangle mass that Illya was slowly pulling apart and getting to know. Strong, loyal, bowing to no one, and proud.

“Are you?"

Napoleon gave him a baleful look. “That wolfthing was clearly yours, Peril. Down to a T."

“Wolfthing," he echoed, almost laughing.

“It sure as hell wasn’t a real wolf!"

“Spirit animals aren’t real, Cowboy."

“You’re a riot."

Napoleon plopped down on the bed beside him. While they had separate bedrooms, they usually spent most of their time in just one. Illya abandoned the newspaper and studied his Shield.

The changes were almost palpable for him. The past months had cemented the fact that while he was a Sentinel without a Guide and had always been able to work perfectly fine, he had needed Napoleon Solo as his Shield to truly live.

It was a freedom that was hard to put into words. He didn’t need him to pull out of zones. He needed him to let go and be human, something other than the Sentinel. His rage was still his darkness, still there, but calmer.

No touch was needed. Just the connection between them.

Touching where Napoleon was bonded to his soul. The calmness was freeing. It was a wholly new experience.

He was free.

The KGB had relinquished its hold on him, the CIA no longer possessed his partner. They were only answering to Waverly. It was just now really settling in, long after he had been told by Waverly that he was solely an U.N.C.L.E. agent now. His country wouldn't want him back because of his American Guide.

Illya felt a surge of emotions that weren‘t all his own and he looked into two intense, blue eyes that reflected his thoughts.

Still of two countries locked in a power struggle, but for them the struggles were no longer their priority. Their missions were different ones.

He could do this.

Perfectly.

Illya let his senses roam, taking in his partner, his Shield, felt the man’s presence with him, physically as well as psychically bonded. Napoleon had fit like a missing piece, into a slot that had opened only after he had met the man.

He reached over and Napoleon easily let himself get pulled into a kiss.

“I think I love you, Cowboy."

It got him a little chuckle against their touching lips. Illya had the memory of an elephant, recalling the tiniest fragments of a conversation that had happened months ago. And it had become a teasing joke between them.

“I think I love you, too Peril," Napoleon replied.

And those words shouldn’t make him tingle and warm, shouldn’t launch a torrent of emotions.

"And you are a fox," Illya added.

It got him raised eyebrows.

"Perfect animal for you, Cowboy."

"Huh."

Illya smiled playfully and he thought he saw a shadow whisk around them, large and dark. Something smaller was briefly there, then both were gone again.

"Not the most… corporeal," Napoleon remarked. "Not that I want to see imaginary animals. It's… distracting."

Illya nodded. He had never seen his own before now and he doubted the wolf would be around all too often. Or the fox.

"Let's hope not," Solo murmured when he voiced those thoughts. "It would be like having two rather freaky pets."

Illya blinked, looking a little bemused, and Napoleon pulled him into another kiss, this time a little more intense, heavier, clearly wanting.

“Cowboy…” Illya warned as they separated.

“Come on,” he whined. “I’m okay. Just… a little?”

The blond was clearly all there, wanting the same, but there was the worry, the concern, the apprehension, and the fear of hurting the other man.

“Illya, I’m fine,” Napoleon insisted. “Really! Just… please?”

He caved. Slowly.

Because he wanted it, too.

 

tbc...


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, life got in the way. I actually had a social life this weekend, so the chapter is two days late :)
> 
> I'm estimating about three more to come, just give you an early heads up... *ducks and runs*

Illya brushed careful fingertips over the healing, red scar of Napoleon’s shoulder wound. The stitches had been removed, the flesh was knitting together nicely, and it wouldn’t be as bad a scar as those treated themselves in the field. Both man had too many of those. Mostly cuts and stabs.

Napoleon caught his hand, twining his own fingers into Illya’s, pulling the hand away.

“I’m fine,” he murmured.

Illya frowned.

“I can read it,” the other man replied softly, voice serious. “In your eyes. Along the anchor line. You worry, Peril. Too much for such a small injury.”

“You nearly died,” Illya replied harshly, voice sharp.

“I’m not dead.”

“Could be.”

“But I’m not.”

They looked at each other, blue eyes meeting blue eyes, and the Sentinel expelled a breath. Napoleon’s fingers were suddenly in his hair, pulling him into a kiss, reassuring and warm.

“Not dead,” he murmured.

Yes. Not dead. Could have been so easily.

Illya closed his eyes and dropped his head against Solo’s naked chest. It was the risk of their job and it was a job they excelled at. Had it been a simply gun shot, matters wouldn’t have deteriorated so badly so quickly. As it was, the new kind of weaponry was currently under investigation and Napoleon suspected they might be hunting down the creator of those deadly bullets in the near future.

Napoleon’s hands stroked over his hair, a soothing, loving rhythm. Illya stretched his senses, listened to his Shield’s heartbeat, his breathing, the reassuring thrum of his pulse. Along their connection, Napoleon felt like a lazy cat, languid, placid, all grace and warmth.

“Huh.”

Illya hadn’t been aware of closing his eyes, but they snapped open at the non-committal sound. His muscles tensed slightly before he realized there was no alarm coming from his partner. Just… bemused curiosity.

“Seems we get to see them more often.”

Illya twisted a little and found what Napoleon had been talking about.

The fox. And the… wolfthing, for lack of a better word. At least the fox was recognizable. His own spirit animal still was nothing more than a black hole with the occasional animalistic limb materializing.

The fox bit at the darkness, looking a little annoyed, and suddenly it coalesced into a more lupine shape, though the tendrils of inky nothingness kept twisting around the freakishly big creature.

The wolf shot the fox a narrow-eyed look, almost as annoyed as Napoleon’s spirit animal, for whatever reason.

The fox looked extremely smug and happy.

“I really hope we’re the only ones seeing them,” Napoleon remarked with a casual air. “Or otherwise we’re going to cause a riot wherever we go. Well, yours will.”

Illya huffed. He wasn’t inclined to sit up, too comfortable against the other man and too relaxed. The wolfthing cocked its head and regarded them curiously.

“I feel like I need to bring out the dog biscuits,” Napoleon remarked lightly.

The fox twined between the massive, black legs of the wolfthing, nipping at the dense fur with sharp little teeth. A massive paw pushed the fox aside, but it bounded back, yipping, though no sound could be heard.

“Annoying little fella,” Napoleon drawled.

Illya chuckled, tightening the arm draped over the other man’s middle. “You.”

“I’m not little!”

“Hm, no. You are not. Annoying, though.”

He felt Napoleon shrug.

The wolf’s jaws suddenly closed over the scruff of the gray fox’s neck and it deposited the bundle of fur between its legs, pushing it close, and then curled around it. There was just blackness now, except for the tip of the gray tail peeking out from under the darkness.

Illya smirked against the warm skin.

“I can hear you laughing,” Napoleon muttered, fingers carding into his hair.

 

 

The two animals didn’t disappear like last time.

Actually, both stayed for quite some time, entangled with each other, clearly very comfortable and familiar in each other’s presence. The fox had squirmed out of the wolfthing’s embrace and explored the room, nosing at everything, then had animated its counterpart to follow it around and look at whatever it had found interesting.

Napoleon, freshly showered and shaved, found them intriguing. He couldn’t understand the concept, had a hard time wrapping his head around such mystical beings, while Illya took it all in a stride.

 

 

When both men left their apartment, Napoleon sometimes thought he saw them out of the corner of his eyes.

He definitely saw the wolfthing while he was waiting for his appointment with one of U.N.C.L.E.’s doctors for a last check. It was watching proceedings like a vengeful spirit, those golden eyes never leaving the doctor. Now and then the ears twitched. When Dr. Hansen carefully probed the scar, testing how sensitive it was or if the area had numbed due to nerve damage, it actually stalked closer, circling the examination table.

Of the fox there was no sign.

Napoleon watched the wolfthing, tilting his head a little as it sat down, the haunches briefly visible in the swirl of dark shadows. Its eyes seemed to glow, the only truly clear part of it always visible.

Hansen was busy making notes, but he gave Napoleon a brief, quizzical look. “Agent Solo?”

“Yes?” he asked innocently.

“It has been noted that you are Agent Kuryakin’s bonded partner. He is a Sentinel.”

Napoleon silently waited for more.

“Has your connection been more strained than normal? After the shooting?”

Waverly had offered them the standard psych eval or assistance that all Sentinel-Guide pairs were entitled to, but neither man had felt it necessary.

“No, we’re good.”

“You haven’t been to see anyone of us.”

It wasn’t a question either.

“That is correct.”

The wolfthing was looking at Hansen, more real now, a lot more real, and those paws looked like they could decapitate a bear in one swipe. Damn!

“As a Sentinel’s Guide, your near-death left an impression on the bond, Mr. Solo. You should get an evaluation.”

“You might need to update your records, Dr. Hansen,” Napoleon replied with a pleasant, almost bored air. “I’m not his Guide.”

Hansen scowled, then leafed through the file. “Ah. I see,” he said slowly. “Still… a bond exists and can be negatively affected by one side’s near death.”

“We’re good,” was the easy answer. Napoleon put a little dismissive touch to it, in no mood to argue with someone who had absolutely no idea what he and Illya truly were.

Hansen looked far from happy, but he didn’t press on. He simply made a note, then nodded.

“I’ll forward your medical file to Commander Waverly. You are cleared for normal duty, though I’d recommend a few more days in the office.”

“I’m sure the Commander will take that into consideration.”

Napoleon saw the fox when he walked out of the doctor’s office, sitting next to Illya, prim and proper, straight back, paws perfectly placed. Illya was leaning against the wall and waiting patiently for Napoleon’s return. It cocked its head, ears perked, then panted happily. It bounded over to the shadowy thing prowling after Napoleon, still completely unseen by the people around them, and the black tendrils flowed over it, around it, brushing over fur and caressing it. It was like a happy reunion.

Napoleon dragged his eyes away from the affectionate display, cocking an eyebrow at Illya.

“Did you send me your bodyguard?”

“Could ask you the same, Cowboy,” he replied, pushing away from the wall and following Napoleon outside. “It was waiting with me.”

“Huh. Interesting.”

Not that he had any idea what it meant. From Illya’s look, neither did his partner.

“Did you need guarding?” the blond asked calmly.

“From the good doctor? Not at all. Did you feel I needed protection?”

Illya’s expression said it all. Napoleon just about refrained from rolling his eyes. Since Kuryakin hadn’t been allowed in the examination room – unless he pulled Sentinel rank, which he hadn’t done – the wolfthing had been there in his stead. And Napoleon’s fox had decided to keep the Sentinel company to keep him from… whatever.

Napoleon wondered if the fox was even capable of stopping anything in this realm, since it was a spirit representation only. And what would the wolfthing have done if Hansen had misbehaved in its eyes?

He really, really needed a handbook.

 

 

The moment they stepped out onto the streets, the two spirit animals were gone. Between one blink of the eye and the next.

Curious.

 

*

 

Napoleon had been declared fit for duty, though it was discouraged that he strain his shoulder too much in the beginning.

Illya would make sure of that as much as was possible, though a mission was never predictable.

“You and your wolfthing…” Napoleon murmured as they moved against each other, hot and heavy, feeling the pent-up emotions between them. “Worriers.”

“You give reason to worry.” Illya buried his face against the sweaty neck, teeth scraping over the red mark he had already left there from an hour ago.

Napoleon shuddered, then screwed his eyes shut with a harsh gasp as Illya slid home again. Slick, hot, still a little sore, and yet he pushed back and wanted more.

He braced himself against the wall as Illya moved at a steady rhythm. His shoulder didn’t so much as twinge. Maybe it were the endorphins, maybe it was adrenaline, maybe it was just because he was completely fine. Totally.

 

*

 

Gaby dropped by the next day. She raised her eyebrows at the very domestic scene in front of her.

Neither man was improperly dressed – though she wouldn't faint from seeing a little more of them. She had patched them both up too often to count. That meant Gaby had seen her share of nudity. In this job it didn't pay to be squeamish or prude. For all his teasing and womanizing ways, Napoleon Solo had been nothing but professional when he had cleaned a hundred scrapes and cuts on her throughout one mission, seeing a lot more of Gaby Teller than before.

No, this wasn't them being undressed or even making out on the couch. This was… just domestic altogether. Calm, quiet, settled.

Nice.

Napoleon looked up from where he was playing with a listening device, poking at the open innards, several bugs next to it. Illya was playing chess against himself again, apparently paying no attention to anything but the game.

Nothing out of the ordinary.

And still… to Gaby it was everything those two were.

"New mission?" Napoleon asked, placing the lid on the casing.

"Athens. Tomorrow morning. Waverly is meeting us there."

Napoleon smiled brightly. "Beautiful city. Very historic. And I know this little place near the Acropolis that has the best lunches."

Gaby rolled her eyes, sharing a look with Illya, whose soft smile was telltale. "At least we won't starve," she remarked sarcastically.

 

tbc...


	23. Chapter 23

No, they didn't starve, but Illya ruined a perfectly good rental car. When they were done, it sported more bullet holes than anyone wanted to count, and the engine had blown. Actually, it had burned out on a rural road not far from Athens.

Gaby applied her acquired knowledge on how to crack a simple wall safe. Napoleon was proud like a new father. She was equally proud, beaming at her teacher.

"Knew you had talent," he only remarked. "You also had the best teacher."

"Full of yourself much, Solo?" Gaby replied sweetly, but the pride was unmistakable.

"I am the best," Napoleon only stated with an insufferable smile.

"Sure."

Gaby gave him a light pat, shaking her head, and walked over to the room's full bar. She poured herself a drink and swirled the clear liquid in the glass.

"Now what?"

"We drop off package, we fly home," Illya rumbled.

He was checking his gear, already prepared to move. His movements were sure, almost automatic, like he had done it a million times before; and he had. Economic, Napoleon called it.

"We have a few more hours," the American advised. "Cover of darkness and all. We lay low, let things calm down a little, and then head to the drop off point." He was all business again.

"Waiting might be the wrong move," Illya said.

"Or the right one."

"Do you want to draw straws?" Gaby asked, sounding a little annoyed as she leaned against the bar. "We stirred up some dust and personally, I'd like to get out of here."

Napoleon gave a minute shake of his head, that annoying smile on his face. "What they expect, my dear Gaby, is that we run. We do the opposite. We stay and enjoy the balmy Greek night. The happily married couple on their honeymoon takes a stroll while I steal a car and meet them not much later." He shot her a bright look. "Then we see if the drop off point is compromised."

"And when things go south, you improvise?"

"One of my best qualities."

"Debatable."

Gaby raised quizzical eyebrows at Illya, who appeared contemplative. Napoleon sighed.

"Gang up on me, right," he muttered.

His Sentinel gave a brief smirk, then nodded at Gaby. "Good plan," he commented.

"Thank you!" Napoleon called.

 

 

They didn't need to improvise too much. The drop off was made with almost no incident.

Except one.

"Got a tail," Napoleon remarked as they walked toward their car.

Illya gave a hum, aware of the man in the dark suit, watching them. Gaby, who had left a little earlier and had gotten a head start in a cab, would have to make due on her own.

Right now they had a tail to shake.

 

 

The problem was, the tail wasn't alone.

There was one more guy and he got the drop on them.

Napoleon hated such traps. It usually ruined a good day and left him with one less very nice outfit that he had specially ordered by a renowned tailor.

And he was right.

 

 

"Illya Kuryakin."

"Friend of yours?" Napoleon asked casually.

The alley had been a good setting for a trap. A dead end, nothing but garbage cans and old boxes. The two fire doors leading into the alley were tightly locked and the wall that blocked off their exit was high enough to thwart an easy vault over it.

Illya was a tightly coiled presence of absolute blackness along the anchor line. His senses were open, sight and sound dialed high enough to scan for even the smallest noise.

Both men stood back to back, not really touching but with little room between them. Illya had his gun pointed at the rather obvious Russian, judging from the accent. Napoleon kept his eyes on the thug – yes, he was clearly a thug – who had already been in the alley.

"Kirill Belevich," Illya growled with barely contained fury.

Napoleon cocked his head a little, studying the man out of the corner of his eyes. Hardly as tall as them, dark hair, probably older by ten years, and featuring a rather unbecoming mustache.

"KGB?" he hazarded a guess.

"Da," Belevich chuckled. "Like my old comrade Kuryakin here. Then again, he was… loaned out to this little organization. After he failed in his last mission. Disgusting."

Illya said nothing, but the tension was pretty clear to feel, even without looking at him. The Sentinel had his silenced gun pointed unwaveringly at Belevich, eyes hard as granite.

"What do you want?" he demanded harshly, switching to Russian.

Napoleon had no problem understanding his partner. They had been switching between languages, training, though Illya mostly spoke English. The only time they never switched to English was when they were training Gaby's Russian language skills.

It was when she told them she hated them. Repeatedly. In Russian. She had also quickly learned a lot of curse and swear words in the new language.

"No need for such hostilities, Kuryakin. I was simply curious. Your failure to retrieve the tape with the German's research was… unexpected. When you didn't return to be punished, maybe sent to a colder climate for a while to cool off, it sparked my interest."

Illya snarled silently. Napoleon never shifted a muscle, eyes on the thug, but his mind was already reaching for the connection between them.

This could get very ugly very fast.

"Your family's name is similar with dishonor," Belevich continued harshly. "You are an embarrassment."

"Now, now," Napoleon chided gently. "Be nice, comrade. We are all friends here."

Belevich ignored him. Extremely rude.

"This… U.N.C.L.E… they took an interest in you. And the American. They recruit from other organizations, always the best and brightest if they accept their offer, but why you?"

Napoleon didn't say what came to mind, for once keeping the smart mouth in check. This was interesting to watch. Dangerous, yes, but also interesting.

"The little girl, she left with the package. It might have been of interest to us, but I let her go."

"How generous of you," Napoleon quipped, the words just slipping out. So much for good intentions.

Illya's presence increased and there was a momentary spike, like at the start of an episode, but that was about it. Nothing else. Just a spike and then… control.

Good, Napoleon thought. Don't let him rile you up.

"I waited for Oleg to give the kill command," Belevich said. "It never came. That got me thinking. You, the prized Sentinel, his best weapon. Now gone. Why not take you out of the picture? Why not kill what he can't have? And then we heard that you were no longer KGB." He laughed, shaking his head. "Illya Kuryakin. The Alpha Sentinel. Best we had. No Guide could stand up to you. So powerful and independent on that tight leash. No longer KGB? Laughable."

"What do you want?" Illya demanded again.

Napoleon was immediately on guard as he took note of the perfectly placid tone of voice. 

It was a warning.

Because he would snap if Belevich dug any deeper.

And he wouldn't kill him quickly.

Not happening, Napoleon decided. At least if he could help it. He reached along the anchor and firmly dug in his proverbial heels. It wouldn't be good manners to kill a KGB agent.

He leaned back a fraction, still not touching, but the presence increased.

"What I want? Honor, comrade. You were a thorn in my side for too long, so why not kill you?"

The dark vortex bloomed, rising over the anchor line and reaching for Napoleon, who touched it with gentle care, grounding him. It hissed and snapped, furious at the other Russian's audacity to threaten the Sentinel. There was a ragged edge to the presence, focused on killing, tearing apart, just pure violence.

Nope, he thought again. Nope, nope, nope. Not doing that.

His focal point strengthened and the anchor took hold, the shield blanketing the razor-sharp presence.

Napoleon let a slow smile appear on his lips. Superior, self-assured, kind of a jackass smile.

"Not a wise choice, comrade."

Belevich's eyes narrowed.

"Agent Kuryakin is, as you already stated, a Sentinel. It's frowned upon by all nations to take a hit out on one of them. Or kill them in cold-blooded, planned murder."

Belevich laughed derisively. "Sentinels die all the time. In the line of duty. No one will cry a tear after you."

The tidal wave rose, white heat flashing inside the absolute blackness. Napoleon pushed at it, a tiny poke compared to the writhing mass, but it didn't need more. The focal point was still strong.

Illya was absolutely calm on the outside, though he shifted almost imperceptibly on the balls of his feet.

"I doubt you would want international relations between your country and everyone else to go downhill because of one former KGB agent, Comrade Belevich," Napoleon said with a mild-mannered tone to his voice. "I doubt your superiors would want that either. Would it be worth going to Siberia because of petty revenge?"

Belevich sneered. "No one will know but me."

Napoleon shrugged, an elegant movement that expressed how he didn't have a care in the world.

"You see, Comrade Belevich, this is where you are wrong. U.N.C.L.E. not only has excellent choice in recruitment, they also have the latest tech. As you so sadly interrupted our departure while still on a mission, both Agent Kuryakin and I are wired."

Solo glanced back and then slightly pulled open his jacket. He revealed the wire running from a button somewhere into the jacket itself, disappearing. The hired help saw it clearly, muttering a curse under his breath.

Belevich stared at him, a surge of hatred crossing his features. "You lie! American parasite!"

"Ow." Napoleon's smile brightened even more. "Prove it. The recording might already be on the way to your superior. Threatening a Sentinel and his bonded Guide to kill either of them… bad manners, Comrade. Very bad manners."

"You are not his Guide!" The words were dripping with poison.

"Prove it."

Illya's lips drew in a cruel, cold smile. "He is my Guide, Belevich."

They were staring at each other, Belevich clearly trying to decide how much Napoleon was bluffing, how much Illya was lying.

If Solo was bluffing at all.

"Kuryakin never bonded to anyone!" the KGB agent spat. "He destroyed them. He is an aberration of a Sentinel, a weapon to be used and disposed of when he is no longer useful. He's unable to bond, a damaged Sentinel!"

"I'd stop talking if I were you," Napoleon told him, feeling Illya's fury rise. "And leave. Or you can stay and die. Your choice."

Belevich snorted. "Did you get a toy, comrade?” he asked with a sneer. “Pretty American fuck toy?”

Illya’s presence rose sharply, almost overwhelming over the connection between them, and Napoleon was so close to touching him to snap him out of his state, but he didn’t dare. And they didn’t need it.

“I always knew you weren’t normal, Kuryakin!” Belevich hissed. “Not as an agent, not as a Sentinel. We all know what Guides are good for! Perverted pleasure!”

“Shooting you would be my pleasure,” Napoleon replied sweetly, the smile still there, his voice carrying a clear warning. “I know how to bury a body, comrade. I also know that even your country doesn’t try to break a bond between same sex pairs. You use them. All countries do, no matter what.”

“You are perversion! All your kind!”

“It’s a matter of perspective,” Solo replied conversationally. “Personally, I think it’s quite enjoyable.”

Belevich looked livid. Disgusted, too.

"Ten," Napoleon only said.

"Nine," Illya easily followed, gun steady.

"Eight," he continued, smiling more. His own aim hadn't wavered from Belevich.

"Seven."

Napoleon raised his eyebrows, eyes cold and calculating. "Six, Comrade."

"You won't shoot," Belevich hissed.

"I wouldn't count on that. Five."

"There is a gun trained on you!" the Russian agent said furiously. "You will die!"

Illya's lips curled into a cruel smile, almost psychopathic. "He can only shoot one of us. Whoever it is, the other will kill him. You will die today, too, Belevich." He sounded absolutely lethal.

"And the chances of the shot being a kill shot?" Napoleon chimed in. "Well… Four."

Belevich was clearly fighting an inner battle and he finally uttered a curse.

"Language," Napoleon chided.

“You sold yourself to capitalists!” the KGB agent snarled.

"Three," Illya replied, eyes narrowing as his trigger finger stroked over the trigger.

And then the Russian was gone. Napoleon looked over his shoulder, then back at the nameless thug he had brought along. He made a shooing motion with his gun and the man hurried off, too.

"Well," he declared. "That's that."

"He might be back," Illya rumbled, the tension of the confrontation only slowly leaking from his tall frame.

Napoleon shrugged. "Or not. I didn't lie. I am wired. And there is a recording. I think Waverly might be very interested in this conversation."

Illya twitched a smile. "Possibly." He put his gun back into the shoulder holster. "Your accent is still atrocious."

He smirked, walking out the alleyway. "Maybe I need to practice more."

The Sentinel stayed at his side as they walked down the sidewalk, fierce protectiveness radiating over the open bond. "Possible."

"So… old friend of yours?"

"Not a friend."

"Yes, I gathered as much." Napoleon shot him a probing look.

Illya looked straight ahead. "Belevich… is an ambitious agent. He despises the idea of receptives, Sentinels or Guides, in the KGB's service. He was rather vocal in his displeasure when I joined the KGB. He hated it even more when I became the youngest agent to join. Or when I became one of the best within three years, rising through the ranks."

Solo nodded, keen eyes searching the streets for anything out of the ordinary, or too ordinary.

"He wanted me to fail. I never did until East Berlin."

Napoleon gave him a smug look that Illya didn't comment on. Along their connection, Napoleon felt nothing but warmth. The failure had long since turned into acceptance and respect.

"I failed, but I wasn't punished," the blond continued. "I wasn't recalled. I was transferred to work for U.N.C.L.E., with an American partner. And then Waverly made the impossible and unheard of happen. I stayed on, was no longer on loan but a permanent member. The KGB had relinquished their control."

They crossed the road and walked into a hotel, one they weren't even staying in, and wove their way to the back, losing whoever might be following them.

"How dangerous is he?" Napoleon asked when they stopped in the shadow of a tall building.

"Very."

He frowned. "To be taken care of right now?"

Illya didn't answer. His hands clenched briefly into fists.

"We might want to think about having Waverly handle it," Napoleon said diplomatically. "International conflicts and all; those we want to prevent."

It got him a sharp nod.

The Sentinel leaned a little closer, clearly wanting to touch his Shield but holding back. Napoleon cocked his head, then closed the distance and wrapped a light grip around the strong wrist.

Tension leeched from the tall frame.

It was a second.

It was enough.

"We have mission to complete," Illya said, voice even.

Across their connection, Napoleon felt a deep longing, the need, but also the control. They didn't have the luxury right now.

"Yes, we have."

 

tbc...


	24. Chapter 24

They went their separate ways after that, reuniting only in London, where there was a layover.

Napoleon felt himself relax again as he caught sight of the tall blond Russian. He had no problem being separated from his Sentinel and Illya didn't experience adverse effects either, but neither man liked it.

Especially after running into Belevich, which had been a complication no one had expected.

Illya had had no time to truly decompress, to deal with the tense moment, the confrontation, the threat against him and his Shield.

He thought he saw the dark shadow slinking around Illya, golden eyes looking at Napoleon from within that inky blackness. There was no true shape, as before, just the brief flash of long teeth in a wolfish maw, the afterimage of paws with dangerous claws, and then just the tendrils. Napoleon hadn’t seen his own fox in all that time, not even out of the corners of his eyes, but Illya’s spirit animal seemed to be a lot more… there.

“It’s back,” Napoleon murmured.

Sitting together in the first class lounge, close but not close enough to look suspicious, both men enjoyed free drinks.

Illya nodded. “It has been back since I boarded the plane. Before that it was… like an illusion. Never there when I looked. Always just… a thought.”

Napoleon caught a glimpse of the gray ball of fur, running in and out of the shadowy mass, looking extremely happy and just a little past hyper. Like they had been reunited after a too long absence, getting reacquainted.

Napoleon lowered his shields a little and Illya suddenly relaxed. He seemed to exhaled, briefly closing his eyes, and the tension leeched out of him.

Solo raised a quizzical eyebrow at him.

The Sentinel's answer was a flicker of a smile, the warmth in it unmistakable for someone who knew him so well.

The two animals had become more insubstantial and then they were gone, apparently appeased.

Napoleon made a mental note to get in touch with Sarah Moffett if he had the time. He could only guess what it meant, though it was a good guess that after nearly dying and the bond growing so much more solid and intense, the two animals had finally managed to manifest more completely. And to be around a lot more than before.

The whole psychic energy and spiritual stuff was starting to give him a headache. It was a lot more than he had bargained for or ever wanted.

Then again…

He looked at his Sentinel, feeling proud and possessive in one, the feeling coursing through him with an intensity that almost left him breathless. Illya was his. He might never have wanted this, but it had happened and he wouldn’t give it up for anything.

Anything at all.

 

*

 

They arrived in New York after an eventless flight, both tired but relieved, but also still on full guard. Napoleon picked up a rental and wasn't surprised to find Gaby had joined Illya, looking fresh and smartly dressed. She had been on an earlier flight and had landed thirty minutes ahead of them.

"Where can I drop you off?" he asked pleasantly.

"Headquarters."

"As you wish."

They pulled away from the airport and Napoleon easily steered their ride toward U.N.C.L.E.'s new US headquarters. He didn't plan on reporting to Waverly until he had gotten some sleep, eaten a full meal, and especially had some one-on-one time with his Sentinel.

A Sentinel who was currently riding shotgun and looking more like a statue than a human being.

 

 

Napoleon wasn't surprised that Illya followed him home. He suppressed a grin at that thought as he locked the door after them – after making sure they hadn't been followed. The sweep for bugs was automatic and came up negative.

Same for Illya, who had done his own bug search with his equipment.

When he returned from the kitchen, already mentally going over what he had in stock and what he could make of it, Kuryakin was still standing in the middle of the living room.

Napoleon tilted his head a little, testing the anchor line, and found there were small fluctuations. Tight control that was waning.

"Peril?" he probed.

"I… don't like you being away."

Napoleon blinked. "Come again?"

"It feels wrong."

That was… new. Right? It was new?

"I never needed a Guide, but I need you," Illya said, voice rough, emotions in it that rarely ever spilled out.

That warm explosion in his chest shouldn't be so amazing.

"Is that so bad?" he asked, voice low; serious.

"It compromises us. Our missions."

"Separation isn't pain, right? We can work with it." Napoleon walked over to his partner. "We are a team. Sometimes it means taking different routes to get home. And when we're home, you can decompress." He placed a hand against the broad chest, felt the welcome thrum of the bond in response.

Lowering the shields was automatic,

Illya closed his eyes and exhaled sharply, the tension bleeding out of his frame.

"Still a weakness."

"Nothing we can't work around." Napoleon placed a dry kiss against the clean-shaven chin. "We're not like other pairs. We can be apart. We don't have to like it, but we can do it."

The blond opened his eyes. He placed one tentative hand against the small of Solo's back, the other rested on his hip.

"You are my weakness, Cowboy. Never had one before."

"You are my strength, Peril," he replied seriously.

The kiss was warm, without trying to arouse, and without the pressing desire to claim. A rumble came from deep inside Kuryakin's chest and Napoleon nipped playfully at the reddened lips.

"This isn't bad," he reiterated. "You're not compromised. It's just your human side."

"My… human side," Illya echoed, looking a bit confused.

"You once said, I make you human. I am your Shield. So when what happened wasn't what other pairs experience, Peril. It was you being your controlled self again. You missed being human." Napoleon tilted his head and smirked.

Illya studied him, brows down, then huffed a little laugh. Napoleon's own smile was wide and happy.

"I like making you human," he added. "It suits you. You look… happy."

Conflicting emotions raced through those pale blue eyes. "I… am," Illya finally said. "Human. Happy."

"Good." Napoleon patted the firm chest. "And soon to be well-fed."

Illya laughed softly as he relinquished his hold on his partner, though it seemed reluctant.

"You will cook?"

"Not if you would rather go somewhere?"

"No. No, cooking sounds fine. I like you cooking."

Napoleon grinned. "I'm an excellent cook."

 

*

 

Napoleon delivered the recording of their meeting with Belevich and his thug personally.

Waverly just nodded.

 

*

 

It was a lot later that their Commander dropped a line about meeting Oleg and having a little chat with him about KGB agents who wanted to take matters into their own hands. Especially concerning a bonded Alpha Sentinel and his Guide.

"Siberia?" Napoleon asked when he and Illya left Waverly's office.

It got him a nod. The tall blond looked thoughtful.

"You okay?"

"Not used to this," was the honest answer.

Napoleon closed the door of their own office after them. "Someone having your back?"

"Yes. Still new. Especially superiors."

Solo smiled, warm, reassuring. He leaned in, close enough for Illya to kiss him if he wanted to.

And he wanted.

A brief connection of lips, but deeper than anyone could ever fathom. Barriers lowered and the Sentinel closed his eyes, sighing a little at the comfort it gave him.

"I would shoot him if he came after you," Napoleon promised in a cold, hard, low voice.

Illya's eyes snapped open, the light blue almost silver. "You are not a killer, Cowboy."

"I would kill him."

"No," Illya decided, cupping his face, thumb brushing over his skin. "No."

But he would do it. No qualms, no regrets. No one threated his partner, his Sentinel, like that.

"KGB will take care of him," the blond murmured. "Incriminating evidence of a hit on a bonded Sentinel without necessity."

Napoleon's brows lowered a little.

"Not even good friends will get him out of that," Illya added. "International relations," he reminded Napoleon. "Important."

"Yeah."

Their nations weren't at war with each other, just in an arms race and generally trying to outdo the other. Within U.N.C.L.E. they cooperated, together with several European countries. And yes, U.N.C.L.E. actively sought to recruit spies and agents from other agencies. Belevich had been right there.

"Let it go, Cowboy."

"He might not be the last."

"He will be. KGB won't have it on their plate. This is a global cooperation against global threats. You called Belevich petty. He is. It won't be tolerated."

Napoleon expelled a breath, forcing himself to relax.

"You are my Shield," Illya murmured. "You protect." He kissed him softly. "I am honored, Napoleon Solo."

He grinned into the kiss. "So I get to be a possessive bastard, too, hm?"

Illya shared the grin. "Absolutely. This is equal relationship."

“Good to hear.”

They separated and Napoleon kind of mourned the loss of close contact. Illya’s hand brushed along his own and he kept his shields lowered, though not completely down.

They were both not used to a lot of what U.N.C.L.E. did or how they handled matters, how much Waverly stood up for his unusual agents. Napoleon had always been kind of a rogue and Sanders had had his problems, right down to chaining him down more and more. The chain had become something else; not a leash, not any kind of control instrument. It was like a silk ribbon, always there, not harmful, not hurting, but a reminder that they weren’t free agents either.

Napoleon didn’t mind Waverly’s version of control. He knew that Illya didn’t either.

They could work with this.

Both of them.

 

tbc...


	25. Chapter 25

Napoleon hadn’t expected to see Sarah Moffett any time soon, so he was pleasantly surprised when he got her message that she was in London for a few days. She offered to meet with him, a place he chose, and Napoleon decided on one of the front offices from U.N.C.L.E.

It was a small building, a restored townhouse, surrounded by more townhouses, all with perfectly groomed gardens, clean fronts, and some had plaques attached declaring who worked here. In U.N.C.L.E.’s case it was an accounting firm that was used as a cover.

“You look well, Miss Moffett,” he greeted the red-head as she walked into the living room.

“I can return the compliment,” she replied with a smile.

“Where’s your better half?”

“Enjoying the sights. Yours?”

“Probably skulking around in the attic.”

Sarah laughed. Napoleon’s smile stayed friendly and neutral.

“I was surprised to hear from you,” he said conversationally.

“Your Commander Waverly seems to be recruiting.”

Napoleon just raised his eyebrows.

Sarah shrugged. “So far it would be a loan, so to speak. Tim and I would become U.N.C.L.E.’s operatives, based mainly in the US, but with the option of world-wide travel.”

“It has its perks.”

“Probably. If you enjoy living out of a suitcase.”

“The FBI sends you all over the country, too,” Napoleon replied amiably. “Same suitcase, though less jetlag.”

“True.”

“So you had your recruitment speech?”

She chuckled. “More like a welcome speech. It’s a done deal. We’ll be colleagues for a while.”

Napoleon nodded. “Maybe for a lot longer than you planned for. Coffee? Tea?” he offered.

“Tea sounds fine.”

 

 

With the tea steeping, Sarah sat down and looked curiously at him.

“You have questions,” she stated. “About the bond you share with your Sentinel.”

“Seems so,” Napoleon replied. “Things have… developed. In a rather unexpected way. I’m not quite used to… this kind of unexpected.”

She nodded. “Seeing that you and Mr. Kuryakin are by far the most unique pairing I’ve met, I can believe that. I promise that whatever you talk to me about, whatever we talk about, it will stay confidential.”

Napoleon tilted his head a little, regarding her carefully. Sarah was a Guide and as such empathic. She was a pretty good listener and Napoleon hadn’t felt unwell around her for all the time the two teams had worked together. She was a likeable person and quietly competent, and he trusted her as much as he would anyone he had worked together and not been betrayed by.

In Sentinel-Guide matters she was the only one he would think about talking to. It was an instinct, a gut feeling, and he trusted in that, too. It hadn’t failed him when it had been Illya.

“What about your Sentinel?” he now asked.

“I trust him.”

It was a simple but very truthful answer. Napoleon understood where it came from, how she could believe it without question.

He trusted Illya the same.

 

 

They talked for a long time. Mostly Napoleon at first, about the sudden appearance of their spirit animals. How Illya’s was so… strange. How the bond had become so solid all of a sudden. How the wolfthing had hovered around Napoleon.

Sarah listened. Nodded. Pursed her lips and nodded some more.

“Do you know what a spirit animal is?” she asked when Napoleon was done.

“A representation of us.”

Another nod. “Of you, your skills. Some say it’s of your soul.”

Napoleon didn’t respond. He had never paid the whole mystic aspect of the Sentinels and Guides much attention. He never had to. He had never been involved in any of it.

Now… now it was so very different.

So he had a spirit animal. As did Illya.

“Usually they are animals found in nature. They can be big or small, mammals, birds or reptiles, even waterbound ones. Those are quite rare, though. A fox and a wolf are rather common, something we know. Your fox’s unusual color has no meaning. The wolf’s appearance… that is quite… unusual.”

“It’s what I perceive when I look at Illya,” he said softly.

She raised her eyebrows. Napoleon knew he was divulging private information, but it was also something only another receptive could understand.

So he talked about the darkness at the other end of the anchor bond. A vortex that swallowed everything, that was a representation of his Sentinel and so much more. The sharpness, the lethal air, the way it was biting and snapping, but to him it was nothing but familiar and warm. It matched him, it was perfect and gentle. It never hurt him.

“Oh,” she murmured, looking slightly shocked. “Oh wow.”

He laughed a little. “Yes, in a way.”

“Tim… well, it’s not like that with him. I know he’s there, can sense me and I can sense him, but there is nothing like this… And it doesn’t overwhelm you at all?”

“No.”

“So the wolf is him, with the darkness. And it grows more real… with the fox? The fox is the anchor?”

He nodded.

“He needs you.”

“I know that, Sarah.”

She played with the tea spoon. “What I mean is that he needs you to be human, not to be a Sentinel.”

“That I know, too.”

“The wolf shows what you wouldn’t see otherwise. It’s the representation of your Sentinel’s soul. Do you understand the implications, Solo?”

“That we’re unique, that I’m not his Guide, he’s a self-sufficient Alpha Sentinel, which is a complete contradiction?” He shrugged, trying to appear careless. “Knew all that.”

“Yes, Alphas are the hardest Sentinels to pair with strong enough Guides. They need a very strong receptive, an empath trained to handle what is coming their way. Alphas either find that one person or they burn out.”

Napoleon was quite aware of that. “They have all five senses, whih makes them powerful. They have an A-level, an Alpha status to boot, but they are the ones who can be easily overwhelmed,” he recited what he read before. “And we know what an odd duck Illya is.”

Sarah smiled. “You might say that. What could be called an aberration is a huge advantage. The downside is that your partner had lost touch with what it meant to be just himself.”

“Which is where I came in, the one most unlikeliest Guide.”

“And what he needed.” Sarah studied him curiously. “I still find that most interesting, but I’m not an expert. I just read a lot. Usually spirit animals materialize in such situations you went through. Nearly dying. You enter the spirit plane and you can see them. Or throughout meditation.”

“Never meditated in my life. And I was in out apartment when I saw them the first time.”

Sarah looked intrigued and frustrated in one. “And they keep coming back?”

“They’ve been around.”

“Not normal,” she repeated.

“I noticed. So, ideas?”

She laughed a little. “Too many and not the right ones. All I can tell you is that spirit animals are not dangerous, but yours are misbehaving. I’ve seen mine just once. Same with Tim’s. They don’t… interact with their respective partners.”

“The fox plays with the wolf. Bites at him. Like it’s playing. Then the wolf becomes more real. Like it needs…” Napoleon stopped, tilting his head, looking thoughtful all of a sudden. “Huh. Representations.” It was a new kind of realization that had been in the back of his mind, but now it really hit him.

She nodded, smiling. “Illya needs you to be human. The wolf needs the fox to be more… real. They are you, your representations. Your interaction with them is fascinating. Or that his animal stayed with you.”

“He’s a worry wart.”

“He is a Sentinel,” Sarah agreed. “Tim is the same.”

“He hovers?”

She chuckled. “Oh, yes.”

Napoleon studied her, her relaxed pose, the way she openly looked at him without hiding anything.

“You two are close,” he stated.

“Pairs are. Always. Our minds are connected, Agent Solo. It means closeness. We work together, live together. Whether it’s platonic or not is your choice.”

Sarah didn’t elaborate and in that regard she was hard to read.

Napoleon suspected they were platonic with the occasional closer touch when Tim needed it. Then again, he might be wrong. For all her innocent, open appearance, Sarah Moffett was an agent and a trained Guide. She might be projecting a lot that wasn’t true. He had never given the strange relationship between Sentinels and Guides a deeper thought. They could hardly find someone else, marry, have a family. Who wanted to have a husband or wife who was bonded to another person, aware of their well-being, was needed for them to function?

Could they even fall in love with someone or did the psychic connection overwrite that?

Again, he and Illya weren’t the best example. Napoleon had found the other man attractive right from the start, before accidentally lowering his shields, before Illya had made him as a low-level receptive.

Before everything Napoleon had ever believed had come crashing down around him and his low-level status had been boosted to powerful Shield.

“I could look into this if you want,” she offered. “Bonds like yours aren’t exactly mentioned in the regular books. And Guides get training, especially to work with their Sentinel and to use their abilities. You don’t have that training. You don’t need it.”

“Maybe I should start meditating.”

She smiled. “You could try, but it’s not as easy as it might sound. Have you ever sensed him?”

Napoleon frowned mildly, cocking his head a little. “Sense him?”

“Have you ever been aware of your Sentinel, his state of mind, his emotions?”

“Maybe.” The anger, maybe. When Illya felt furious about something. Sometimes the worry.

“That is normal for such bonds. You know how he is, sometimes more, sometimes less intensely. It’s not telepathy. It’s more like empathy.”

Napoleon nodded slowly.

Sarah studied him, curious but not asking more. She poured herself another cup and took a cookie from the bowl that had remained untouched until now.

“I’ll see if I can find something on Shield bonds,” she finally broke the silence. “I have my library connections.”

He gave her a smile. “That would be appreciated.”

“No promises, though.”

“I’ll keep my expectations low.”

“Good.”

 

 

When Sarah left, Napoleon caught sight of his dark gray fox, sitting prim and proper on the couch like it owned it, looking smug and know-it-all. Its bushy tail was wrapped around the furry body, the tip covering its black paws.

“Anything you want?” he asked, thankful there was no one around. He was talking to thin air.

Its tongue lolled as it seemed to laugh at him, the eyes alight with something that looked like amusement. Even the corners of the mouth were curled up.

Well.

Napoleon studied his spirit animal. It looked absolutely real; corporeal. Like he could reach out and touch it. It made no sound, it left no hair or paw prints, and still… to him it was very real.

And it had been this visible and present ever since he had nearly died of that laced bullet.

Near-death experiences bring out the spirit animals, Sarah had told him. But on the spirit plane, not running around and annoying their human counterparts.

“Where’s your shadow?” he asked lightly.

It cocked its head in a very familiar manner, then hopped down from the couch and trotted over to the door, only to disappear. Napoleon rolled his eyes.

“Show-off,” he muttered.

And didn’t that remind him of someone? He grinned to himself.

Napoleon found Illya standing outside the townhouse, looking as inconspicuous as a fist to the face. He was sitting on the steps, watching the road, but he partially turned his head when the fox bounded past him and tumbled into the blackness that was slinking around the corner of the house. It flowed toward the fox with thin tendrils wrapping around it in a light embrace.

“It looks kinda happy,” Napoleon remarked. “Both of them, actually.”

Illya rose from his seated position, giving his partner that private little smile. It was a reflection of the wolfthing’s happiness.

It was only when the door closed after them, giving them privacy, that the Sentinel pushed him against the wall, wrapped himself around Solo like a huge, muscular blanket, and buried his face against Napoleon’s hair.

“Happy,” the not-Guide confirmed, his own arms around the taller man.

“Very.”

“Still a new sensation?” Napoleon slightly cocked his head, eyebrows rising fractionally.

“Sometimes.”

“I suspect you heard everything?”

Sentinel hearing and all. Illya might not have sat on the stairs the whole time since that was suspicious, but he had been close enough.

“Yes,” he rumbled. “We are a contradiction.”

“Yeah, well, I know I always was. Ask Sanders. He hated my guts for not conforming to the image of the good little agent.”

“So much for normalcy.”

“You were never good agent, Cowboy.”

“Well, thank you.”

Illya leaned back, those glacially blue eyes meeting Napoleon’s. “Compliment.”

“From you, it is.”

“You are bad ass agent.”

Napoleon smirked at him. “That’s more like it.”

“And still a terrible spy.”

He laughed, shaking his head, feeling eddies of Illya’s amusement mingle with his.

The Russian buried his face against Napoleon’s cheek, eyes closed, his focus almost solely on his partner. For Napoleon it felt like being wrapped in a human blanket, physically and psychically. He closed his eyes, too, just… feeling.

“I wish I understood,” he murmured after a while of silent contact.

“No need to. We are what we are,” was Illya’s almost philosophical answer.

He chuckled, opening his eyes to look at the taller man.

Napoleon almost rolled his eyes again when the fox suddenly raced through the hallway, followed by the wolfthing, which looked a lot more like a wolf than ever. All four legs were visible, even its belly, though it seemed to drag the shadows behind it like a huge cape.

They disappeared in the living room.

“Is it me or are they a lot more visible and active?”

Illya shrugged. The anchor between them was solid and real, Napoleon’s barriers down and his side open to his Sentinel.

If those two spirit animals were a representation of their souls, then Illya was feeling pretty free right now. And Napoleon was always playful.

“Plans?” he asked lightly, a teasing smile in his eyes.

Illya kissed him and Napoleon hummed his pleasure. Yes, that sounded like a plan.

“By the way,” he murmured, “happy birthday.”

Illya shot him a confused look and Napoleon grinned.

“Not used to that either?”

“No,” was the honest answer.

“You never celebrated?”

“Not for a long time.”

Solo nodded. He understood. He hadn’t celebrated his birthday since joining the Army when he had lied about his age. For Illya, birthdays had probably lost their meaning after his father had fallen out of grace.

It changed nothing for them.

“Want to celebrate now?” He waggled his eyebrows.

The Sentinel gave him a half-smile. “One track mind, Cowboy.”

“You know me.”

“All too well.”

Napoleon slipped out from under him, the inviting expression open and real as he sauntered over to the bedroom. He heard Illya’s happy laugh, felt the same emotions along the anchor, and somehow it was all he needed.

 

 

He saw neither spiritual hide nor hair, or shadowy tendrils, of their spirit animals.

 

tbc...


	26. Chapter 26

They were sent to Paris next, Napoleon for once playing Gaby’s well-to-do husband, Illya their silent, towering bodyguard. He filled that role extremely well, Napoleon decided with a smirk. Gaby had dressed up for the occasion, looking like the spoiled wife she was supposed to play. Napoleon moved among the guests, presenting with the air of someone who knew he could buy everything he wanted, get everything he asked for, and would never lack anything at all.

It was an easy mission, retrieving a wayward scientist who had taken what belonged to an American research group, and with it to the US government.

They tracked him down easily, mingling with the group of potential buyers, and finally wrapped him and his stolen papers up in a nice package to send him back home.

Waverly barely gave them time enough to enjoy the rest of the day, which Napoleon had planned to spend at a restaurant with a fine dinner and fine company. As it was, they packed their bags, grabbed wrapped sandwiches, and were on the train to Berlin.

Gaby looked extremely displeased, mostly because she had wanted to do her own version of shopping, which meant powering through boutiques and small stores, scaring the natives and acquiring a dress or two. Maybe a dozen shoes on top of that, Napoleon always teased her.

But Gaby always travelled light.

 

 

Berlin meant dodging Russian agents, who were intent on stopping the trio from leaving again. Especially since Napoleon had managed to crack a safe, stolen the bank account numbers, access codes and passwords of several illegal accounts that held millions in foreign currency.

It ended with three dead Russians, a bullet graze to Gaby’s left thigh and Illya twisting his knee, bruising his shoulder and probably cracking a rib when he tumbled down the stairs.

Napoleon patched up Gaby’s thigh, quick and completely professional about seeing more of their female colleague than most would. She was an attractive woman, intelligent, quick-witted, with charm and guts and grit. Everything he admired and liked in a woman, especially one who had proven herself to be extremely adaptable and enduring like Gaby Teller.

And still, right from the first time they had met, he had never once tried to take it a step further. She had been the job, not a mark to be seduced. She had sparked another kind of interest, none of it sexual, though it Gaby had come onto him, Napoleon might have taken her up on the offer.

But… no.

Now she was one of the team. The little interest she had shown in Illya had passed, which was all the better because Napoleon didn’t share in that regard and neither would Illya.

So, seeing her naked was no different than any other body Napoleon had ever had to patch up. He wouldn’t have blinked or hesitated for a second if it had been a chest injury and she would have to show her breasts. Nor did Gaby have qualms in that regard either.

She gritted her teeth as he cleaned the injury and applied neat little stitches, then wrapped it.

“Okay?” he asked, voice serious and quiet, just like his whole demeanor.

They hadn’t returned to their hotel room, choosing an apartment outside West Berlin instead. It was currently unoccupied and they would be leaving within the next hours again. No one would know they had been here, not even the new tenants.

“I’m good. Take care of your Sentinel.”

Napoleon shot her a brief smile. “He’s a grown boy.”

“Hard not to notice, Solo. I’m good. And I know you’ve been itching to get in there.”

“Quite perceptive,” he said.

Her soft smile almost caught him off guard. “Go,” she repeated.

Napoleon nodded and rose. He had been itching to get to Illya, feeling the other man’s discomfort over the anchor line, though there had been no alarming spikes. He walked into the bathroom where Illya had stripped and was palpating his already rather discolored shoulder.

“Anything broken?” Napoleon asked, all professional.

“No.”

He eyed the bruise on the ribcage, raising a quizzical eyebrow.

“Just a bruise.”

With those heightened senses, Napoleon trusted him to know. He wouldn’t put it past Illya to ignore injuries, like they all tended to do when a mission became tense. Adrenaline carried you on and as an agent Napoleon knew that stopping sometimes wasn’t part of the plan. Right now they had a moment and he wanted to make sure his partner wasn’t liable to keel over.

“Knee?”

“I’m good. Gaby was worse off.”

“She would argue that point. And she’s good, too. She told me to take care of my Sentinel.” Napoleon raised an eyebrow.

The man in question grimaced.

“And our pick-up is in two hours.”

Illya nodded briskly and pulled on the sweater again, grimacing only briefly. Napoleon felt the discomfort slithering along the bond, his shields down. He hesitated for the fraction of a moment, then broke the rule to be professional on a job. He closed the distance and touched the skin not yet covered by clothes.

Illya froze for a second, eyes widening in surprise, then he exhaled sharply. Napoleon felt something skitter over the anchor and he closed his eyes, feeling the tension leech out of him as well. Illya’s hand brushed over his cheek and he smiled.

They were good.

Everything would be fine.

Rules be damned. It had been him making them up anyway.

Touch meant showing the connection, meant weakness, meant liability.

But it was needed right now, for both of them, and however much Illya Kuryakin was always in complete control of his senses, needed no Guide and was self-sufficient, he was human. And the human side had shown through, drawing Napoleon in.

It was incredibly grounding for both of them.

Dry lips brushed over his temple, his forehead.

“Are you two decent?” Gaby called, breaking the moment, and Illya chuckled softly.

“No,” Napoleon replied. “Not that it ever bothered you.”

She opened the bathroom door, scowling at the two men, who looked nothing but presentable and put together. The contact was gone and there was no incriminating evidence, aside from the lessened tension in Illya’s frame. They didn’t even stand all too closely together, considering the tiny size of the bathroom.

Gaby made a shooing motion. “I need to use the bathroom,” she announced. “Go away.”

“You heard the lady, Peril. Let’s go.”

 

 

There was just one more incident before they reached their extraction point, but it was dealt with quickly. This time the agent following them didn’t die, but he might never be able to walk on that leg again. Illya had incredibly good aim, as he had proven before.

 

 

They didn’t see a flicker of their spirit animals the whole time.

 

 

All three agents went their separate ways again, Gaby with the information package, Illya as her bodyguard until the German border, then he met up with his Shield once more, who was only too happy to have the Sentinel at his side again. Napoleon hadn’t lacked for pleasant company while travelling to the meeting point, but he hadn’t been in the mood to indulge.

The mission was the job and that meant delivering as ordered. For a man who had always worked alone, Napoleon had quickly adjusted to being part of a team, to being bonded to a Sentinel, and he missed the team.

It might have been a weakness in his eyes a year or so ago; now he didn’t think abut it like that at all.

It also felt like Waverly was testing them, like he wanted to see if the two men could still work independently. This hadn’t been the first mission where they had split up for a prolonged time to throw off a tail or to make a faster getaway.

It also wouldn’t be the last.

There was no deficiency in their performance, just the need to reassure themselves that the other half was okay.

It usually meant touching, which Napoleon didn’t object to at all.

Especially when it meant naked skin and a bed.

 

 

“You believe it is a test?” Illya asked.

They were still in bed, completely naked, and Napoleon enjoyed the sight before him to the fullest. Fading bruises and all.

“Maybe,” he answered. Napoleon pushed himself up, leaning against the headboard.

Illya’s eyes travelled up the broad chest, coming to rest on the red mark he had left. He looked extremely pleased.

Solo smirked slightly.

They had checked in under false names into the penthouse suite of a prestigious Zurich hotel that assured them complete privacy, down to giving no information whatsoever about their guests. Napoleon speculated on three days of luxury and relaxation, but if Waverly recalled them for another mission, so be it. He would enjoy himself, and Illya, as long as he could.

“If it was a test, we aced it,” he said.

Illya dragged his gaze away from the mark, nodding slowly. “Not compromised.”

“We can’t be compromised, Peril. It’s not how this works. We function without problems when on separate assignments. If that’s what Waverly wanted to know, now he does. And I quite enjoy the reunions.” He raised his eyebrows suggestively.

The blond smiled. He leaned over and kissed his Shield, catching Napoleon slightly off guard.

“I enjoy them, too,” he murmured, voice low and seductive.

Yes, Illya could do seductive very well, though not when faced with a target. He wasn’t that skilled, though he could go with the flow and some women found his laid back and sometimes fumbling manner endearing. Or they saw it as a challenge to thaw the block of Russian glacier, coming on to the bodyguard or fiancée or brother, or whatever role he played at that moment.

Napoleon was a natural. He did it with ease. It was practiced, smooth, suave, and he was always in control.

Illya was the only one who shattered that, who had looked underneath that armor and managed to break Solo’s control. Completely.

The Sentinel settled over Napoleon’s stretched out legs, looming over the other man, and Solo curled his mouth into a knowing smile. His fingers slid up the firm, naked chest, skipping playfully over a nipple. Illya’s eyes darkened with want.

“I’m thinking room service,” Napoleon murmured, voice low and dark.

“Good thinking,” Illya agreed.

Because they wouldn’t be leaving this hotel room at all.

 

 

"Have you ever thought about retirement?"

Illya looked up from the paper he was reading, eyebrows climbing. "Retirement?" he echoed, sounding a bit puzzled.

"You know, the moment you hang up your flat cap, turn your back on the spy business, move somewhere nice, enjoy life?"

"Retirement is… for old people."

Napoleon shrugged.

"You want to think ahead?"

Another shrug.

Illya was silent, just looking at his partner, then his gaze strayed around the room. It settled on the window and he sighed.

"I never thought about it," he finally said.

"Not the Russian way?" Napoleon teased.

It got him a small smile. "Very perceptive, Cowboy. But also not what an agent thinks about."

"Because we might not reach old age," Solo finished that sentence, nodding slowly. "But retirement doesn't have to do with age, Peril, It's also the time you decide that it's enough, that you lost your edge."

"We haven't."

"No, not yet."

"I am a Sentinel. Alpha. We hardly lose our edge."

"I know that."

Illya smoothed his hands over the paper. "In KGB, retirement is not voluntary."

"I had five more years. Then I would have been rid of Sanders. It would have been an out."

"You want out?"

Napoleon felt a little shiver along the anchor and he met the so bright blue eyes calmly.

"I'll always be where you are, Peril. Always. There is no out if you're still in. And U.N.C.L.E. isn't the CIA or KGB. Waverly… handles us differently."

The Russian nodded slowly.

"I enjoy it."

Illya still remained silent.

"I know you do, too." Napoleon smiled knowingly. "I plan on reaching a very old age. With you. I have no time limit here. I want this, Illya. Us. With U.N.C.L.E. as long as we don't fail in the field. And even later, who knows? We might just take over and run this show."

He grinned winningly, spreading his arms. Illya laughed, shaking his head.

 

 

"I enjoy my life as it is already," the blond said when they were in bed together.

Napoleon was pleasantly spent, enjoying this moment in his life right now, and he lazily eyed the expanse of naked skin.

Very nice.

"So do I," he answered, feeling languid and warm. Emotionally, too.

Illya caught his lips in a kiss, strong, almost dominating, and Napoleon wrapped his arms around the taller man, feeling a wave of emotions crash into his mind. All his shields were down.

All he did was feel.

Illya. Just Illya.

Those intense sensation, the overpowering desire and love. Especially the love.

Napoleon groaned when the Sentinel let them come up for air, only to gently teeth at the mark on his chest.

Their lives were unpredictable. Missions came and went, were simple or dangerous. No one knew what would happen to them, how badly one of them got injured, or if it was just a walk in the park.

This, here, in privacy, just them… that was what he enjoyed. His Sentinel and bonded. His very own Red Peril.

"Napoleon?"

He smiled, the rare use of his given name saying so much more than anything else.

"I'm good," he murmured.

It would be their decision together when it was time to retire, to change gears and maybe jobs.

Out of the corner of his eye he caught movement and turned his head.

"Now they're already watching us," he muttered. "Voyeurs!"

Illya followed his line of sight and laughed, burying his face against Napoleon's chest as his shoulders shook.

"It's not funny!" the American groused.

"Is funny, Cowboy. They are not animals, nor real."

"They're real somehow."

The fox tilted its head in a very Napoleon-like manner. It sat on its haunches, ears perked up, eyes alight with what could only be seen as amusement.

The wolfthing was more corporeal than ever, almost completely there, and it towered over the much smaller fox like a guardian angel. And it looked like a wolf from hell. Still.

"Shoo," Napoleon growled.

Neither animal moved.

The fox had the audacity to snuggle against one black wolfthing leg, nosing into the dense fur, then it curled up and buried its nose in its tail. The wolfthing looked down in fond amusement, then curled up as well. Around the fox.

"They look so adorable, it's tooth decaying," Napoleon grumbled.

Illya chuckled and proceeded to wrap himself around Napoleon, mimicking their spirit animals.

"For someone who never had one and never missed it, you fell in love rather quickly," Solo complained. "You like them around."

"I like you, Cowboy. This is part of you," the blond explained, sounding patient and fond. "You never had yours either."

"At least I hallucinated shadows," Napoleon shot back. "Or I thought it was a hallucination. A trick."

"You led mine to me."

The simple statement had him stop, his mind processing the depth of the truth in those few words. Illya regarded him with a patient smile, then kissed Napoleon as he opened his mouth to argue.

Oh.

Yeah, that was nice, too.

Just this.

Napoleon ignored the cute scene in the room and turned to appreciating his Sentinel.

Deeply and in detail.

 

tbc...


	27. Chapter 27

They had another mission with Tim Martin and Sarah Moffett, this time going after a missing experimental explosive, that took them all the way to Mexico and then to South America.

Gaby was having the time of her life with Sarah. It wasn’t often she got to work with other female agents and seeing those two together was both amusing and reason for serious concern. Somehow they were getting it off extremely well in the field, though they had been chatting in the office a few times, too.

When they came back from a shopping trip to adjust their outfits to the current situation, Sarah sported a new hair cut that had Tim stop, blink and stare. She had cut off half of the length, had enhanced the natural waves a little, and the make-up did nothing to hide the fact that she was a beautiful woman. The dark blue dress she had chosen was stunning. Gaby looked no less stunning in her white ensemble and the silver clutch.

Both women were drawing looks. From Tim’s expression he wanted to stake a claim on his Guide right here and now. Well, the relationship might be mostly platonic, but it might be a little less platonic soon.

“If I was a suspicious person,” Napoleon murmured as he watched the two women as they sat at the bar, “I’d say they’re planning to take over the world.”

Illya shot him a half-amused look. “You are suspicious person, Cowboy.”

“Well, if I were even more suspicious.”

The Russian hid his grin behind his glass of water.

They would be watching their team members, see if their mark made contact. He was a womanizer, the more the merrier, and both Gaby and Sarah were right up his alley.

 

 

Their mark was quite taken with the two women and they both played him extremely well. Napoleon shot a look at Sarah’s partner, but Martin was rather calm, focused on scanning the area, looking for any kind of threat, any kind of hidden danger.

When the mark had Gaby and Sarah on one arm each, a smarmy smile on his lips and most likely imagining what kind of juicy sandwich they would make, Illya left to take up position. Napoleon had left earlier to break into the hotel room and set up their plan there.

 

 

It was actually quite easy to lace the room’s drink selection, and then just wait in the second room of the hideously expensive suite.

It didn’t take long for the mark to feel the effects after Sarah had fed him strawberries dipped in champagne and Gaby had handed the first class, high end drinks to him.

He wouldn’t remember a thing in the morning, probably boasting about getting laid by two stunning women to his friends.

Napoleon had no problem getting into the suitcase, the wall safe and the secured travel bag, copy the files and exchange the man’s access keys and credit cards with fakes. In the meantime, Gaby and Sarah messed up the bed, left evidence of a wild night, then quietly slipped out.

It took no more than ten minutes.

 

*

 

Tim was only slowly unwinding around Illya, shooting him hidden looks as if he expected the Alpha to jump him for some reason. Illya was nothing but laid-back and silent. He didn’t posture, he never bristled, he only once had a moment of spiking anger when they discovered their intel was wrong and they had been chasing down the wrong person.

It meant backtracking a whole day, losing valuable time, and their target had already crossed the border way ahead of them.

Otherwise he was a looming, towering wall of silence, watching, sometimes throwing in his two cents.

“Tim can’t get over the fact that he can’t sense your Sentinel,” Sarah told Napoleon as they poured over floor plans, trying to find a way into a tightly sealed hide-out where they suspected the explosive were stored.

It had been a grueling week of non-stop moving, always just losing the trail, and Martin was irritable at best. He wasn’t used to getting misled so many times, but Illya fared no better.

Whoever they were chasing, he knew he was being pursued by at least one Sentinel and he was taking measures to prevent capture.

He was good, Napoleon had to say.

“As an Alpha, Illya should be extremely present. He isn’t,” Sarah explained as she rolled up the plans.

It had taken less time to get them out of the safe than the chase had lasted so far. Napoleon had found his breaking-and-entering mission close to boring, mind-numbing really, and it had really been anti-climatic. He hadn’t even broken into a sweat.

“We worked together before. He meets Illya at HQ,” Solo pointed out. “He was never this bothered.”

“This is a mission. This is where the Sentinel and Guide are focused, their abilities dialed up high. Tim is a protector, like every Sentinel, and he stands down when he isn’t needed. It’s slightly disturbing for him to meet the Alpha at HQ and not really sense him. Tim knows Illya’s level and status. He just can’t make that work with what he senses. Right now they’re in a kind of combat mode. It feels… wrong… not to sense the Alpha strongly and everywhere.”

“Want me to drop the shields?” Napoleon teased.

She laughed and shook her head, a stray lock of red hair falling into her face. “Oh please, no. I don’t want to scrape him together, bring him out of a shock-induced zone, while we’re on a mission.”

Napoleon wondered just how badly another Sentinel would react to suddenly facing an Alpha he hadn’t been aware of. It gave him food for thought.

 

 

They managed to get the formula for the explosive back, though the already produced material went up in flames.

Spectacular, bright, hot flames that ate away at everything in their way and reducing the building and the surrounding area to a crispy black, surreal landscape.

Gaby glared at him over her singed hair, muttering about presenting Napoleon with a bill from her hair dresser. Her clothes were covered in all kinds of grime, mud and soot. Tim was nursing a sprained wrist, but was other wise fine.

“He’s actually to blame,” Napoleon pointed out amiably.

Martin shot him a glare. “You said to wait.”

“I meant wait, not make up camp and toast marshmallows.”

Illya looked extremely amused, despite his rather singed looks. Like Gaby, he was covered in soot and grime. Napoleon had managed to ruin his outfit like the rest of them, but it hadn’t been one of his expensive suits, just military camouflage.

And Sarah was the only one with barely a mark on her. She was currently driving their getaway van.

“Be nice,” she advised. “We won’t make a stop until we get to the airport, and that’s about an hour out.”

Napoleon kept smiling, all ease and politeness, completely on top of his game. He crossed his feet at his ankles, leaned back, and was a picture of graceful ease. Gaby leaned against Illya, who sat next to his Shield and closed her eyes, falling into a doze. She had no care who was watching, who might be judging, and from Tim’s flabbergasted expression, he was trying not to.

“Try not to get a coronary,” Napoleon advised with a smirk. “She does that a lot.”

Illya had shifted to accommodate the smaller woman, not the least bit perturbed.

“He’s your Sentinel,” Martin remarked, sounding tense and confused in one.

Napoleon raised his eyebrows. He caught Sarah’s eyes in the rearview mirror. She looked wary, ready to intervene, even if it meant stopping the car, but not too alarmed.

“She isn’t a Guide.”

“No.”

“Or… otherwise receptive?”

“Gaby is receptive to a lot of things, but not in the matters we’re talking about.”

“And you’re okay with it?” Tim sounded perplexed.

Napoleon mentally counted to ten. On the outside he was completely calm, in a very tousled way.

“That she isn’t a Guide?” he asked, deliberately misinterpreting.

The Sentinel grimaced. “Don’t pay with me, Solo.”

“I’m not. You know the team dynamics by now. Gaby is part of our team, no more, no less. If she wants to cuddle up to talk, blond and silent here, why not? She earned a nap.”

“Tim,” Sarah could be heard from the front. “Drop it.”

He opened his mouth, then shut it again with a click, clearly not happy.

“This is… hard to get used to,” he finally said.

Illya was watching them with now narrowed eyes, the blue too light to be purely human. There was a dangerous air to him, a warning heading Martin’s way.

“What part?” Napoleon wanted to know.

“All?”

“Listen to your Guide,” Illya told him, voice level, laced with an even clearer warning.

“Wiser words have never been spoken,” Sarah called.

Napoleon shot her a look, but her eyes were on the road. He still caught the dimples forming from a smile, though.

The other Sentinel nodded silently, accepting the warning. However the other three agents handled matters, he wouldn’t prod further.

For now.

But he was both bothered by it and interested.

Napoleon kept on smiling, tilting his head a little.

Tim smiled back, though it lacked humor. He glanced toward the front, focusing on the small window between driver and loading area where the three men and one woman were sitting on the wooden benches. It was dark outside, but Napoleon knew the Sentinel could still see well enough.

Gaby had by now dropped off to sleep, very well able to sleep in any kind of situation, as they all were able to. Illya looked fondly at her, then met Napoleon’s gaze with an almost sheepish, slightly apologetic look. Napoleon did the head tilt again, eyebrows waggling, and it got him a scowl.

He grinned.

Illya rolled his eyes.

Both men knew that their relationship was unusual in so many ways. To another Sentinel it was almost impossible to imagine that a team member who wasn’t the Sentinel’s Guide would just snuggle up and fall asleep on him. Children maybe. Injured people. Gaby fell in neither category.

Napoleon got up and unsteadily walked to the front, peering into the cabin.

“Want to switch and give your Sentinel a hug he so desperately needs?” he asked.

Sarah grinned and Napoleon was sure Tim had heard him.

“He’s a big boy and not zoning. We’re not newly bonded and Tim doesn’t need his Guide’s touch to smooth every emotional flare.”

“If you say so.”

 

 

They were at the tiny airport two hours later, an hour later than planned since they had to lay low for a good thirty minutes until they could sneak into one of the hangars where the freight plane they would use was parked.

Their pilot was waiting, looking unconcerned by their late arrival. Napoleon knew he was a seasoned agent, former Royal Airforce. He might look like he had just passed his seventieth birthday, but his flying was top notch.

Especially going out onto a dark runway and taking the freighter to the air without additional help.

“Relax,” he told his passengers. “I’ll have you home in a jiffy.”

 

 

Illya slept little, allowing for moments of dozing when the other Sentinel was awake. Sarah and Gaby slept the sleep of the just. Napoleon caught as much sleep as he could.

When they landed in San Diego to switch planes, everyone was as awake as possible.

Sarah and Tim took a regular passenger flight back to L.A. Gaby remained with Napoleon and Illya, who would head to Las Vegas.

Napoleon was glad to crash in a bed in Vegas when they were finally home. Well, a home, not their home. They were sharing a cheap hotel room off the strip that held three beds. Well, one was a fold-out couch.

Gaby had commandeered the master bed. Napoleon hadn’t even put up much of a fight, just stripped and dropped onto the fold-out that Illya had already made into their place for the night.

Illya had checked for bugs and had Napoleon double-checked, just to be on the safe side

And they would be going to London the day after tomorrow. That would mean jet-lag, especially if it meant flying economy.

“Try to keep it PG,” Gaby commented when she came out of the bathroom, shooting the two men on the couch a sharp look.

Still, there was a fondness there that sometimes surprised Napoleon.

Now he just grunted and demonstratively flung and arm over Illya’s middle, burying against the taller form. Illya tensed for a moment, shooting a wild look toward Gaby.

“Peril,” Napoleon warned, in no mood for embarrassment or prim and proper form. He wanted to sleep and he wanted Illya next to him.

According to the echoes along the anchor, Illya wanted the same.

“Men,” Gaby just muttered and climbed into bed.

The blond finally relaxed when she switched off the lights. Napoleon dropped his shields and felt the tension in the taller frame drop with them. Illya pressed a dry kiss to his forehead, then buried his face against Napoleon’s hair.

Neither man made a sound.

 

 

Gaby was asleep within minutes, too exhausted to fight the siren call. Napoleon followed not much later. Only Illya remained awake for a while longer, listening to his Shield’s heartbeat, to his breathing, smiling in the dark as he took in the presence of the other man in bed with him.

No privacy, yes. A fold-out couch in a cheap hotel, sure. But it was them, together, and it relaxed him more than he would ever say out loud.

 

*

 

They had a day to spend in Las Vegas, which Napoleon used to the fullest, dragging his two team mates along. Illya tried to look like he had fun, but he more or less just humored his partner.

Gaby truly enjoyed herself at the Poker tables, showing what she had learned from Napoleon. She won some dollars and headed over to the shops next.

 

 

The next morning, they were in luck.

Well, Napoleon used his considerable talent and charm to secure them first class seats on their plane to London.

Illya gave him a look, which Napoleon answered with a cocky smile.

"Shut up and enjoy the flight," he murmured under his breath, aware that the Sentinel could easily pick it up.

 

 

It was when the lights went out as the night flight headed toward London that Napoleon briefly brushed over his partner's hand and Illya gave him a tiny smile.

"I'm good," he murmured so low, it was more lip reading than actually hearing it.

 

 

When they landed, all three U.N.C.L.E. agents were well-rested and awake.

 

tbc...


	28. Chapter 28

London weather was as unpredictable as an U.N.C.L.E. mission. Even throughout late summer, rain showers pelted down and turned the streets into small rivers.

It had been a rainy day that had turned into an even more rainy night, the steady downpour only getting worse, now including gusts of wind. The forecast promised less rain in the morning, but the wind would prevail.

Napoleon didn't care.

The team had holed up in an unused loft-like space above an office building. It was fully furnished, had a huge open terrace that had currently turned into a wading pool, and the kitchen fridge and cabinets were fully stocked.

Right now, he and Illya were alone. Gaby had taken the night off to do whatever Gaby did on her own; Napoleon had long since learned not to ask. His Sentinel had hit the small gym attached to the master bedroom, which contained weights, boxing gear and an endurance bike.

Napoleon had chosen he spacious living room, spread out over the low table and most of the ottoman, and currently he enjoyed the sound of water beating against the skylight and window panes, the rush of rain outside. It was calming, almost meditative, and he had started to fully relax into the cushions as he read through a book.

The Shield had never, in all his life, meditated. He had also never trained his abilities since there had been not a blip on the normal scale of Guide abilities. His empathic talent had come natural to him, enabling him to scam and con his way through life. It had been a knack, an instinct. The tests had shown him to be almost close to nil, but his success in charming a target and getting what he wanted had been on the opposite end of that scale.

Not that he had ever told anyone.

A gust of wind rattled around the building and Napoleon looked up, water slushing off the skylight and obscuring the view to the slate gray sky.

There was no mission yet and the team had been told to stand down, though to be ready. It meant unwinding, doing what they wanted, having private time in a way he had never experienced within the CIA. For Illya those periods of no missions had been completely new, though he had taken to office work and reports like a pro.

Solo smiled, then turned back to the book.

Now he had a Sentinel.

And he wasn’t a Guide.

He was an anchor, the Shield.

It gave him a strange kind of pride, especially considering who the Sentinel in question was and how unconventional their bond had turned out to be.

Sarah Moffett had given him a ton of material to read through, dumping a stack of books in his office and a recommendation list of reading material, too. Wherever he turned, whatever chapter or paragraph he came across, meditation was always mentioned as a technique to broaden his abilities, to become stronger and advance, to get a handle on helping his Sentinel.

But Illya needed no help.

Then there were the spirit animals, who roamed freely around this plane of existence. Normally, to see them, a Guide had to meditate and enter the spirit world. Those two had just traipsed into theirs.

Some authors said that a Guide could commune with his own spirit animal. Napoleon had nearly laughed out loud at that.

Commune.

Right.

They made no sound, left no trace, didn't shed a hair. Thankfully. Napoleon wasn't a pet person.

He leafed through the book, then picked up a stack of papers Sarah had given him. Her personal notes on Guides and interaction with the Sentinel. As a former universal Guide she had a different view than many others, but it helped only a little.

Frustration coursed through him and Napoleon put the papers down.

“Still reading, Cowboy?” came the teasing rumble and he craned his neck, shooting the blond a crooked grin.

“Trying to. And no bad jokes about that, Peril.”

“I do not make bad jokes.”

“I made a list.”

Illya was wearing his work-out t-shirt and sweat pants, looking like he had gone several rounds with the punching bag. His hands were still wrapped and he was just now removing the tape. He peered at the papers, frowning as he bunched up the sweaty tape.

Napoleon let his eyes stray over the skin-tight shirt, highlighting all those nice details about Illya’s upper body. It was an appreciated distraction, one he planned on taking to the next level sometime today. Maybe in the shower. Yeah, that sounded like a pretty good plan.

“Why do you continue this?” his Sentinel asked, interrupting his daydreaming.

Not that he really needed to daydream. He had Illya and he would always have him. There was no fantasizing involved. The man was his bonded partner and not just a fling.

Never a fling.

Napoleon suppressed the wave of gooey caramel warmth in his chest.

Damn!

“Because it might just give us an insight into our connection? The weird spirit animals? The whole unusual bond?” He shrugged. “I really don’t know. It’s… complicated. Like I’m expected to do something and I don’t know what it is. I'm flying blind most of the way. Not sure that's a good thing, considering our line of work.”

The Sentinel shook his head slowly. “You don’t need to learn, Cowboy. You already do what you are doing. You know how to do it.”

“And isn’t that cryptic.”

Illya settled down on the couch, hands still working on the balled-up tape like a stress ball. “You are a Shield, not a Guide. The Guide is active. The Guide needs to touch, needs to talk, needs to reach their Sentinel in case of a zone.”

“And you don’t zone, I know.” Napoleon ran a hand through his rather tousled hair. He had taught himself languages more complicated than what was his natural talent.

Illya focused on his anchor. “You don’t need training, Cowboy.”

“Okay.”

"Neither do I. I know other Sentinels go through exercises, reaffirm the bond with their Guide. They work on their senses, always training them. I've never had a fluctuations. I never needed to worry about that."

Napoleon shook his head. "I don't worry about your senses, Peril. Or zones. Or a fugue. This is about me. And seeing spirit animals." He gave Illya a crooked grin.

“Books won’t help.”

“If you say so. Where do you get your arcane knowledge from?” Napoleon asked flippantly.

“I know. I feel your presence with me. You are correct, it has become… stronger since you…” Illya looked suddenly angry again. “Since you nearly died,” he almost-snarled.

Napoleon poked the anchor and the Sentinel gave him a brief smile.

“You are… solid, you said. It’s what I feel, too. Always there. You do what is needed, anchoring my human side to the Sentinel, balancing the rage. No psychotic tics.” He shook his head. “No red zones. You are here, all the time.” He touched his temple. “Without knowing it. Without doing anything. That’s what I need, not anyone else. You do it instinctively.”

Napoleon made a non-committal sound. “And apparently I make you invisible to other Sentinels and Guides.”

“Which is a good thing. Comes in handy, too.”

“To sneak up on someone who otherwise might catch a whiff of you?”

Illya nodded. “Camouflage.”

“So you’re as neutral as I am now. You don’t register at all?”

The Russian shrugged. “I don't know. Maybe weaker. Agent Martin mentioned something. He was confused, though not as direct and appalling in his approach as Agent Daniels.”

Napoleon chuckled at the wording. “Yeah, the guy was an ass. It might be important to know how I’m doing it. If I can consciously increase or decrease the shield.”

His Sentinel studied him, looking thoughtful. “You dropped it when you showed off to Agent Carmichael.”

Napoleon scowled. “I did not show off!”

Illya tilted his head a little, giving him a pointed look.

“She was an idiot,” Napoleon only said.

“Agreed. It showed you can do it. And meditating doesn’t fit you, Cowboy.”

Napoleon glowered at him. “Is that a challenge?”

“Fact. You don’t meditate.”

He growled something uncomplimentary in Russian, which was loud enough for Illya to hear. His lips twitched.

“Your accent is atrocious.”

“So is yours, but I’m not mocking you.”

“I never mock you.”

“Silently. In your head. I can hear you judging me.”

“So the bond is good for something.” Illya’s large hand squeezed his neck gently.

Napoleon tried not to lean into the contact, but it was hard. Physical contact had never been this amazing as when it was Peril. It had to be a Sentinel thing. Like everything else.

Illya's smile widened. He looked young, happy, so at ease. Napoleon felt something inside of him twitch in response.

"So… no meditating," he decided.

"No."

Napoleon clapped his hands. "Well, good." He glanced at his watch. "Almost time."

Illya nodded. Neither man rose, the Sentinel still touching his Shield, thumb caressing over smooth skin.

"Five more minutes?" Napoleon murmured, a teasing note in his words.

"I know your five minutes, Cowboy."

"Hm, yes, I forgot. You bugged my room."

Illya smirked.

“Kinky bastard.”

He gave Napoleon's neck a last squeeze and rose. Solo mourned the loss of contact.

In the back of his mind he kept thinking about Illya, hiding the powerful Sentinel from others, and he knew it needed to be tested. For that he needed to find receptives.

Well, he had time.

And it would be interesting.

 

 

Illya watched as Napoleon slept, looking absolutely relaxed; trusting. Feeling safe.

He smiled at his partner, feeling those soft eddies coming along the anchor line. Napoleon had left his shields down, trusting in his Sentinel to keep him safe, and Illya diligently kept watch. He wouldn’t let anything happen to the other man, psychically or physically.

This was their safehouse. They weren’t in any danger here, though both regularly checked their surroundings.

For some reason he was thinking about Napoleon’s question from so long ago again, when they had been on the freighter heading toward Liverpool. Would his parents have accepted Napoleon Solo as his Guide?

He would like to think so, yes. Parents of a Sentinel were always happy to match their child, be it Sentinel or Guide. Parents of an Alpha would have been overflowing with pride and achievement.

Would they have accepted an American?

Illya smiled a little, eyes tracing the sleep-softened, still sharp lines of the American in question.

He had no true way of knowing. His father had been a supporter of Stalin, had been a party man. He would have had to accept the match, but he might not have been all too thrilled. As for his son’s Guide being a man… Well, for all the homophobic waves riding along in every society throughout the decades, Sentinels and Guides had been the major exception.

So yes, Napoleon would have been accepted, but with a slight mistrust and a lot of scowling.

He picked up the old watch that rested on the nightstand, brushing his fingers over the worn leather and metal. The inscription on the back was still there, tiny letters stenciled into the metal.

His father’s.

The only possession he had left.

The only physical representation of his old life.

His parents’ home had long since been lost to him. With his father’s incarceration his mother had lost everything but a small apartment. All their possessions had been taken. And his mother’s death, not long after his father’s in Siberian, the apartment had been taken, too.

Illya had never needed anything after that, had never wanted to possess anything that could be taken away.

Except the watch.

His reaction to it being stolen from him had been extreme in Gaby or even Napoleon’s eyes, but this was… had been… his family’s.

There was movement, catching in the corner of his eyes, and he found himself almost nose to nose with a gray, fluffy fox that had jumped gracefully and absolutely silently onto the nightstand. It should be physically impossible for the animal to sit there, but this was a spirit animal. Nothing was impossible.

The fox peered at him, tilting its head in a so familiar manner that Illya felt himself smiling. His eyes searched for the wolfthing and found dark shadows coalescing in a corner of the room, the golden eyes blinking open and meeting his own gaze.

The fox huffed silently, looking a little put-upon, then flicked its ears. It finally hopped down again and sauntered over to the wolfthing that was more black hole and tendrils of darkness than lupine.

Illya watched them, saw how more and more of the wolf became wolfish, and the two animals touched noses as the wolfthing bent down to greet its companion.

“Oh gawd, not them again,” came the groan from next to him. “What’d you do, Peril?”

Illya couldn’t hide his fond smile as Napoleon glared at their two animals, who were cozying up to each other, ignoring their respective humans.

“Your fox just appeared.”

Napoleon stared at him, the glower quite pronounced. “I can feel you contemplating, Peril. That’s what drew him. Spill.”

“It was nothing bad. Just…”

Napoleon pushed himself up, suddenly more alert, almost like he was listening to the bond. Maybe he was.

“Family,” he murmured.

“Are you reading me, Cowboy?”

“You are an open book.”

Maybe to this man. Illya didn’t really mind that.

Solo’s eyes fell on the watch in his fingers and he frowned, thinking. “Anniversary of some kind?” he hazarded a guess.

“No. I do not count the years, either of their deaths or my loss.”

And hadn’t that come out way too quiet?

Napoleon was silent, his eyes suddenly on the fox that was watching with unreadable eyes. The wolfthing was slinking around the room like the alpha it represented, restless, disquiet. When it passed by where the fox sat, it nosed at one ear. The fox flicked its ear, then craned its neck to make nose to nose contact.

Despite trying not to, Napoleon had to smile at the display.

The wolfthing licked over the gray head, fur sticking up in every direction, and the fox closed its eyes with a blissful expression on its furry face.

“They never knew what I had become,” Illya suddenly said, drawing the Shield’s attention to him, away from their two very involved spirit animals.

“They knew you were dormant. Or latent, right?”

He nodded.

Napoleon waited.

“Since I was a young child. I didn’t come online from losing my father. Or the distress caused by losing everything else after that. It just happened one day, when I was sixteen.”

Illya’s hands clenched and unclenched, but he felt no imminent red zone approaching. It was just a general sensation of unease at digging up these memories.

“Lately I’ve wondered what it might have been like.”

Solo nodded. The lowered shields meant that he was receiving everything, that his empathic abilities were completely focused on the Sentinel.

Illya placed the watch back onto the nightstand, then suddenly found himself with a lapful of Napoleon Solo. The man had a catlike grace someone his size and built shouldn’t have. It was a contradiction like so many things in his fascinating partner.

“Illya?”

The serious, intense look, and the open face would have shocked anyone else, but Illya knew this man intimately like no one else ever would. This was the man behind the masks. This was Napoleon.

“I’m okay, Cowboy.”

The blue eyes studied him. It was like a look deep into his soul, enhanced by the empathic touch, the brush of the strong and powerful mind against his. Then Napoleon nodded.

Illya leaned forward and kissed him.

The kiss was answered and Napoleon wrapped his arms around him, sliding closer.

It hadn’t been a lie. He was okay. He would always be okay with this man by his side, connected to him like a Guide and still no Guide at all.

 

 

The fox watched the two men, then the wolf shoved its nose into the gray fur, giving it a little push. The fox shot his spirit counterpart a wide grin, tongue lolling, all playful and radiating pleased achievement.

The wolfthing seemed to scowl, making it look even more terrifying than ever, but the fox wasn’t fooled. Nor was it impressed. It slipped between the tendrils, letting them caress its fur, and it nearly purred. It curled up on the darkness that was so much more physical to it than to anyone else.

The wolf rumbled, then curled up around the smaller animal.

To the eyes of their humans they were still visible, but neither man was paying any attention. At least for now.

 

 

Sometime throughout the next hour they faded back onto the spirit plane.

 

* * *

 

The park was crowded with children on this sunny day. Where it had been raining the last three days, the weekend had turned out splendid. It was cooler, the grass and pavement was still damp, but it didn’t stop families from enjoying the day.

The distant sound of a radio could be heard. Children ran rampant, playing on the merry-go-round, sliding down the slides, swinging on the swings. Several parents stood by watching over them. A couple of clowns and a juggler were entertaining various groups of children. One of the clowns was handing out candy.

A little over a year ago, in another place, in another country, Alexander Waverly had drafted three outstanding individuals into his very young, very small organization.

It had been a gamble.

He smiled to himself as he watched his by now infamous team of agents.

His best team.

A year later, no longer the only team, but still the best and the one with the highest success rate.

A powerful, five-senses Alpha Sentinel. Who had no Guide. Former KGB agent. Trainer killer. A man whose father had died in a Russian prison camp in Siberia, whose mother had passed on when he had turned eighteen, and who had no sisters or other relatives who were still alive.

A former CIA agent, who happened to be an extremely talented thief and con man. Heavily shielded, enough to fool everyone who had ever tried to test him. A man who was actually a Shield and now connected to their Sentinel. A man who had no siblings, whose parents didn't know that their then-underage son had faked his age, had joined the army, and gone to Germany. Part of the occupying forces. They had no idea who he was, where he was.

And last but not least a woman who was not only a professional driver, but also a qualified driver. Someone who could shoot, who had picked up Russian rather quickly, who could now crack a safe and open doors. Someone who fit perfectly with the two powerful men who were on the team, who could hold her own against them and had no qualms putting her foot down. A woman whose mother had died, whose father had just recently been killed, and who had no other living relatives.

Perfect agents.

No ties.

Except to each other. In Solo and Kuryakin's case the ties were even more complicated than mere partners.

Yes, Waverly thought. It was a good combination. Unique. It had looked extremely experimental, had threatened to blow up in his face, but it had worked.

Perfectly.

It had been a huge gamble to pair the Russian and the American agent, but after the Vinciguerra affair, Waverly had been convinced that the two so very different men could work together. He had entertained a small hope that it would become more, that the Sentinel would react to Solo in a different way, and in the end he had. No one had believed Waverly when he had told them that Napoleon Solo was more than his files. That there was psychic power underneath strong shields.

He had been proven right.

That Solo had started to shield his Sentinel in turn had been icing on the cake.

It had been a slow process and Waverly hadn't caught on to it right away. He had realized just what kind of a Guide Napoleon Solo was early on; no Guide a normal Sentinel needed.

Kuryakin was far from normal. As he had told him on the chopper: he was special.

As was Napoleon.

And they matched.

Now the Russian was close to invisible to other receptives, like Sentinels and Guides, and it was the extension of the Shield. Napoleon hadn’t even known he was doing it and he also had no idea how it was possible.

Waverly had had his theory tested after the Carmichael-Daniels incident. Of course he had heard about it. It wasn't in any official report and neither Daniels nor Carmichael had come to him for a complaint, but Waverly knew.

After that, after telling both agents that yes, Illya Kuryakin was an Alpha Sentinel and yes, Napoleon Solo was his partner, but not his Guide, and yes, he didn't register, he had told both he expected them to treat this like everything agency-related: they would shut up about it.

Waverly had proceeded to do the same he had done before hiring Solo: he had requested receptives from wherever he could find them, arranged for them to brush close by on the street, in restaurants or hotels, and he asked for results.

It had been amazing to hear everyone tell the same story.

Solo registered as nothing, just like before.

Kuryakin was barely perceptible as a Sentinel anymore. Each man or woman had to really concentrate to catch a glimpse of him.

Yes, amazing. Fascinating.

Waverly was aware what an asset he had on his hands.

With the arrival of Moffett and Martin, a rather regular team of bonded Sentinel-Guide, the Commander had had everything confirmed anew. Martin had been extremely off-kilter in the beginning since he couldn’t get a single sense of Solo and just faint pings from Kuryakin.

Waverly had talked with both of them at length, had asked all the right questions, and he was pleased to hear that Napoleon and had asked Sarah for some assistance.

Not that she had any experience with a Shield, but she had the connections to get him reading material or read up on the matter herself.

“He’s exceptional,” she had told her new boss. “In many ways. As is the Alpha.”

That Waverly knew and would never ignore.

U.N.C.L.E. was still growing and Napoleon, Illya and Gaby were their point team. He relied on their talents, on their connections, on their abilities. He now had a powerful Sentinel, who could work independently from the presence of a Guide, and the man was almost invisible on the psychic scale. He had a man who was the Sentinel's partner, who was his Shield, who could also work independently, and who had never registered at all.

And he had Gaby Teller, who was turning into a very fine agent, who could hold her own against those two strong men, and who, while not a Guide, had a calming influence on both of them.

Yes, it was looking good.

They hadn't failed yet.

And neither would Waverly fail them. He had their backs. He was their support.

They trusted him to a degree. Not absolutely, never without question, but that was what made them such good agents.

His eyes followed those three as they disappeared among the other visitors strolling through the park. It was a beautiful day. Sunny. Bright skies. Perfect to be here, enjoy Hyde Park.

Their next mission was already waiting.

 

Fin!

All good things come to an end and this got longer than I expected. Those two lovely men kept me writing like crazy. It was an obsession I couldn't shake. 

Well, I hope you all enjoyed yourselves! If the muse hits me with another idea, you'll be the first to read it :)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Bulletproof Pages](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6095294) by [Gothams_Only_Wolf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gothams_Only_Wolf/pseuds/Gothams_Only_Wolf)




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